


Underdogs Never Lose

by ashamedbliss



Category: Grand Theft Auto V, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Assassination Plot(s), Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Heist, Minor Character Death, Murder, Organized Crime, Post-Canon, The Unholy Trinity - Freeform, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 76,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashamedbliss/pseuds/ashamedbliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pendragon is a highly dangerous crime family operating in Los Santos, San Andreas. After being ripped from her Irish homeland and living in the syndicate's shadow for ten years, Morgana wants to step up and take the throne. To get there, she'll have to kill Arthur and his father Uther, and to do <i>that</i>, she'll need the help of a certain Trevor Philips: infamous madman, professional underdog, and Arthur's main criminal rival in Blaine County. Her enemy's enemy quickly becomes her friend as she seeks her revenge, and as Morgana tackles violence, betrayal, and ghosts from her past, Trevor and his team soon become the only people she can trust...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a NaNoWriMo project and became so, so much more than that. At 76,000-ish words this is the longest thing I've written by myself and I've become really passionate about it. You're in for a hell of a ride.
> 
> You might be thinking "but I haven't watched Merlin/played GTA V but this sounds cool?" Don't worry if you are! For Merlin fans - I've basically taken the cast and plopped them into the world of Grand Theft Auto. There are some new faces, but as this is mostly told from Morgana's point of view, you learn who they are as she does. For GTAV fans - my darling [lumbeam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam) has read this without any prior Merlin knowledge and said that everything made sense (and even loved Morgana, which just made my year). At any point if anyone has any questions please do just ask in the comments!
> 
> Ships - there are _a lot_ of past, present and future ships that I haven't tagged so I don't spoil. Also the same with some of the warnings. If there is anything chapter specific regarding warnings I will always post a note at the start of the chapter. The canon-violence refers to GTAV - fist fights, blood, etc is very canon. The more extreme violence found in the game though doesn't feature in this fic though so don't worry about that.
> 
> I'm going to be posting this very quickly over the next couple of weeks, so there might be days where I post one or two chapters instantly after each other - I'll post in the header if I do that to let you know!
> 
> I think that's about it! Again huge thanks to [lumbeam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam) and [kxthyx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kxthyx) for their help as usual and I hope you enjoy!

“...and I think it’s something about Los Santos, this city, you know? How you’ve got the rich here in Vinewood, and the poor everywhere else. People die here every day, there’s crime on every street corner... but hey, at least we’re not involved in any of that, right?”

Morgana surveys the room over the lip of her wine glass, taking in the men in expensive suits, the women in flowing dresses, tuning out the man rambling on at her side. This is where she belongs, she reminds herself for the thousandth time, this is where she’s always belonged since she became a Pendragon. The glitter and glamour of Vinewood has been hers to exploit since the family arrived in Los Santos eight years ago.

Her companion makes a nervous, stuttering joke about the financial district being a crime hotspot, pushing his glasses up his nose, and Morgana smiles broadly, even though it wasn’t funny nor clever. She’s good at this; reducing men to boys, just jittery wrecks, all because she’s a beautiful and strong woman.

If only he knew why she was _really_ here.

“I think that’s why they chose to invest. I mean, it’s been great for business,” he says, continuing on a tangent she hadn’t been listening to. She props her head up on her hand, feigning interest. “Why this tiny business somewhere in Europe would bother to buy all my stocks, I don’t know.”

Morgana knows. Pendragon has purchased a high percentage of Norman’s (or was it Nathan’s? Shit, she can’t remember) stocks through a subsidiary company while it’s been weak on the market. There’ll soon be a leadership change, with a stronger leader lined up to instrument a takeover and suddenly the stock prices will soar, making Pendragon a lot of money. Then, of course Pendragon will purchase the stocks legally from its subsidiary, albeit at a very low price, therefore taking over the company in the process.

Or something along those lines; Morgana’s not allowed to look at the facts and figures closely.

All Morgana needs to do is help trigger the takeover process, mainly by taking out the anxious businessman sitting opposite her. It’s hardly legal, but Pendragon never gets caught. _Never_.

“I think perhaps we should take this to your room, don’t you think?” Morgana murmurs, hamming up her Irish accent a bit. And it works, because the guy’s eyes go wide and he nearly drops his drink. Morgana’s is barely touched.

“S-sure, yes, of course, Miss Pendragon,” he mumbles, wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers. Morgana tries not to wince.

“Please, call me Morgana,” she purrs, placing a hand over his as they stand from the bar. He flushes a deep shade of red. “We’re going to get quite well acquainted,” she says, attempting to sound flirty even though she feels anything but. She’s here for business and business alone.

The elevator ride to his room is awkward, with Norbert attempting to make small talk. He’s young, one of the youngest influential men in Los Santos’ financial district, but his youth doesn’t automatically grant him good looks. Morgana looks between the thick glasses, the crooked teeth, and the unfortunately large ears, the latter reminding her of someone else. She quashes that thought.

The doors spring open, and Morgana takes Noah’s clammy hand, encouraging him to lead her to his bedroom. He swipes his key card and she pulls him inside, settling him down on the bed. She lingers for a moment by the mini bar in the room, regarding the man she’s supposed to sleep with. _Arthur says sleep with your mark. Arthur says clap your hands. Arthur says, but never does_.

Fuck Arthur, she thinks.

“You look like you’re going to eat me up,” Neville admits sheepishly, and Morgana feels a bit bad. This guy probably has parents who love him, and according to his file, he has a girlfriend waiting for him at home. She smiles, albeit a little sadly.

“Would you like another drink? Some water, perhaps?” she asks, and her mark nods.

She turns her back to him, upturning the two glasses on the dressing table and filling them both with water from the pitcher in the fridge. The dainty lace gloves on her hands are designed to conceal her fingerprints; she leaves nothing to chance. She fidgets with the ring on her right hand, opening the large, false jewel to reveal a hollow filled with white powder. She tips it into both of the glasses, closing the ring again as the powder begins to settle.

“There you go,” she says softly as she hands him his glass. He looks at the floating particles in it curiously. “I added a little something,” she whispers conspiratorially, knowing that her mark experiments regularly with recreational drugs, “so we can really get this party started.”

She hates the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth; they’re so cheesy, but they’ll suffice for now. Her mark grins, gulping down the water. She pretends to sip at hers before putting it back on the dresser, sitting down next to him on the bed.

As if on cue, Niall (and the irony, she finally remembers his name) begins to choke on his water, beating at his chest futilely as he looks at Morgana in desperation. “Shh,” she soothes him, taking his pocket square out of his jacket to dab at the blood coming from his mouth. “It’s okay. This will be painless, really. You’ll be asleep soon enough, just listen to my voice,” she says detachedly; how many times has she done this now? It’s as if she’s an angel of death, holding dying men through their final moments. “There you go. You’re free from this shitty little world now,” she says as Niall goes limp in her arms. She wipes his mouth again, before laying his heavy body out on the bed, tucking his pocket square back into his jacket.

She stands up quickly, reverting to her most basic state of being, the feeling from her youth of danger lying around every corner. It’s time to go, quickly now, and she surveys the scene. The remnants of his water go down the sink, as well as her untouched glass, wiping the rim of it just in case before setting them both on the dresser. Opening the door with one gloved hand, she casts a final look over her shoulder before she peeks her head out of the door, checking that the corridor is clear. If she’s lucky, Gaius will have done his job properly and patched the CCTV camera at the end of the hallway.

There’s a car waiting for her as she sashays through the foyer, ignoring the paparazzi and the reporters asking when she’ll next be on the runway. She doesn’t mind their attention; she’s a supermodel after all, would they _really_ accuse her of poisoning Los Santos’ Young Businessman of the Year?

If only they knew.

“Well done,” Leon says as Morgana gets into the back of the car, gathering up the hem of her expensive dress. Gwaine shuts the door behind her, before getting into the front passenger seat.

“You know, it’d be grand if Arthur would actually say that to my face, for once,” she huffs as the car pulls away quickly, Leon navigating the late-night Vinewood traffic.

“He’s on the phone, actually,” Leon says in his cheery English accent, and Morgana rolls her eyes. She secretly enjoys the moments like this, when she can let her guard down and not be the precious starlet that Vinewood thinks she is. After all, she’s just a girl from one of the many run-down estates in Dublin, and she will never forget her roots.

Which is one of the many reasons why she hates talking to Arthur.

“Morgana,” Arthur’s voice says from the other end of the line, as Gwaine hands her the phone. “What’s the craic?” he mocks, laughing coldly.

“Fuck you,” she spits, such a common greeting between them that she’s not even sure if it’s vulgar anymore. “It’s done. He’s supposed to check out tomorrow morning, so expect it to be all over Bleeter by midday.”

“Good,” Arthur says, and that’s all it ever is. Never brilliant, never amazing, just _good_. “Did you sleep with him?” Arthur asks.

Morgana smiles to herself, her own petty victory. “No.”

Arthur huffs angrily from the other end of the phone, which only makes Morgana’s smile widen. “I _told_ you that you were supposed to have sex with him! At least a hand job or something.”

Morgana gasps. “Do you hear yourself Arthur? Uther _never_ used to be like this. Why are you suddenly obsessed with me sleeping with marks? What if I told you to go out and eat out some random politician, or actress, just because it would make it more believable?”

“I would do it for the good of the family,” Arthur cuts in coolly, and Morgana knows he isn’t referring to family in the nuclear sense. “This is the second time now you’ve disobeyed me. Make it a third and Uther will know.”

Morgana huffs, handing the phone back to Gwaine without hanging up. “I’m not talking to that stupid fuck anymore,” she says, crossing her arms and staring out of the window, watching the lights speed by. “Tell him that I’ll start listening to him when he stops treating me like some kind of possession,” she spits, and Gwaine just raises his eyebrows before beginning to converse lowly with Arthur. Morgana ignores them, thinking back to how it all started, a long ten years ago now.

_“Merlin!”_

_Morgana shouted, jumping down from the wall she’d been sat on and running over to her friend. She threw her arms around his neck, planting a big kiss on his cheek. “Get off,” he grumbled, before they both started laughing._

_“Eejit,” Morgana teased, the Irish slang meaning idiot slowly becoming their nickname for each other. Morgana dusted down the ripped knees of her jeans, her bloody knees showing through them, before they began to walk down through the maze of alleyways surrounding their estate. “Did you deliver the brick?”_

_Morgana grinned, digging her hand into the pocket of her bomber jacket to reveal a thick wad of Euros. “Aredian said we can have fifty each for every brick, and five each for every baggie.”_

_Merlin smiled, wrapping an arm around Morgana’s shoulders. Despite being only thirteen, he was still much taller than her, a year his senior, and they were both far too streetwise for their own good. Both from broken homes, both easily influenced by money and powerful people, both looking for a way to escape the grey Dublin suburbs._

_They never thought it would happen quite the way it did, though._

_They made their way to Aredian’s house, Morgana knocking on the front door in the code that said the drug runners were back. When there was no reply after a few seconds, Merlin began to shift from foot to foot, running a hand through his unruly black hair. “This isn’t right,” Merlin said, Morgana’s black ponytail swishing from side to side as she shook her head._

_“We_ wait _,” she said firmly, staring up at him. Between their hair and their sharp cheekbones, they were often confused for siblings. Before the year was out, however, they would be much more than that. She knocked again, harder that time, before a young blond man opened the door. “Who the feck are you?” she asked, stepping back in surprise._

_Merlin gasped as he turned around, to see two more young men blocking the path behind them. “Run!” he shouted futilely, being caught in a headlock seconds later. The blond man laughed as the ginger man behind Morgana grabbed her by the arm, yanking her inside the house as Merlin and the others followed._

_They were sat down on Aredian’s sofa, both stopping their struggles when an older man with a gun pointed at them entered the room. “You will be quiet,” he said in an English accent, and Morgana tried her hardest to not scrunch up her face at the sound. “Who are you?”_

_“We... we’re nobodies. We just run stuff for Aredian. Let us go, please,” Merlin begged for them both. “We don’t know anything about Aredian, please just--”_

_“You don’t need to worry about Aredian anymore,” the man said, stepping aside to show Aredian’s blood-soaked corpse behind him. Merlin gasped, whereas Morgana stared at it with steely eyes. She’d seen dead bodies before. “What are your names?”_

_Morgana looked towards Merlin, and they shared a glance. He sighed, before giving his real name. “Merlin Emrys.”_

_The older man looked at Morgana, before she rolled her eyes and sighed. “Morgana Foley.”_

_The man laughed incredulously. “Foley?” Morgana jutted her chin out as she looked up at him, defiant to the end. “As in, the Foleys behind some of the biggest IRA attacks in decades?”_

_Morgana sneered. “What’s it to you?”_

_The older man turned to the blond man. “How much do you think she’s worth, Arthur?”_

_The blond man, Arthur, stepped forward from where he was standing with his cronies. He couldn’t be much older than twenty. “Half a million ransom? I don’t know, father.”_

_Arthur’s father laughed. “A bit high, maybe. We could keep her hostage, though, the boy too. Force the parents out of hiding, sell the information to the police... hmm, this could work very well in our favour.”_

_“Like_ fuck _are you taking us hostage,” Merlin piped up, his native Northern Irish accent getting thicker as he gets angrier, normally disguised for daily life in Dublin._

_“Why not? Tell me, Merlin, how do you live now? Let me guess, mammy’s all alone at home and can’t guarantee you a hot meal every night?” Merlin fell silent at that, and Morgana knew it was because, somehow, the stranger had gotten it all right. “My name is Uther Pendragon. We’re pretty well known in London, so we decided to lose some of the heat and come to Dublin for a while, set ourselves up for our next step.”_

_“America,” Arthur said, and Morgana wrinkled her nose at the wonder in his voice. “Los Santos, to be precise. We could live like kings.”_

_“This is horseshit,” Morgana said under her breath, staring up at Uther. “How do I know you’re not gonna kill me, or touch me while I’m sleeping or some other fucked up shit?”_

_Uther laughed. “Quite a fighter, aren’t you? Well. As long as you’re a good girl and continue Aredian’s deliveries under my instructions, then we’re going to get along just fine. Otherwise, I’ll kill your family, then I’ll kill you.”_

_Morgana’s eyes darted around the room, before she looked at Merlin, whose frightened expression was a mirror image of hers. She laced her fingers through his, holding on for dear life._

Morgana’s parents died three months later, supposedly while planting a car bomb which was tripped early, although she’s never quite had full faith in that explanation. Uther managed to bribe the police into his being awarded custody of Morgana, and when they arrived in America just two years later, Morgana registered as Morgana Pendragon, officially adopted by Uther. Arthur was supposedly her brother, but there was no love between them, and Uther was even more absent that Morgana’s own father had ever been, for the most part.

The lights of the city slow down as Leon pulls up in front of the 3 Alta Street Tower, and Morgana’s Pendragon-owned apartment. Her apartment, her bank accounts, her car; all in Pendragon’s name, all tightly monitored and controlled. “Thanks, Leon,” she says, remembering when he was one of Arthur’s goons, the one who grabbed her back in Dublin and dragged her into the life she leads now. The car zooms off into the night as she steps out of it, and the concierge nods to her as she enters the building.

She relaxes once she’s inside her penthouse apartment, but only a little, knowing that Arthur has probably rigged the place with secret surveillance cameras at some point in the last couple of weeks. Over the last six months, Uther has been trickling more of his power down to Arthur, and absolutely none to Morgana, despite her being their loyal pawn for the last ten years. It’s caused her to rebel a little in her own way; beginning to not sleep with marks, making a (valid) comment about Arthur being obnoxious to a journalist, little things. The tension has racked up between them so much that she doesn’t know quite how they’re going to defuse it.

Unzipping the dress, she lets it fall to the floor before she hangs it up in her wardrobe, alongside dozens of other beautiful gowns. Morgana lets her fingertips brush over the different fabrics; the glamour of her modelling work the one thing she enjoys about her predicament within Pendragon. With her cover as a supermodel, and both Uther’s and Arthur’s as successful businessmen, the Pendragon family has managed to remain legitimate, despite the three of them carrying out much less legal work in their spare time. But the modelling, the parties, the dresses... Morgana can’t help being a girl, a material one at that.

She throws on some pyjamas, taking a few moments to wash her face clean of make-up before she goes to bed, an uneasy feeling of imminent change lingering in her gut.

*

Trevor guides his red Bodhi truck over a jump north of the Alamo Sea, screaming at the top of his lungs in the process. “You feel that, Ron? That’s the kind of shit-ya-pants rush that you can only get by doing _crazy_ things,” he says as they speed along the road, kicking up dust and sand in their wake.

“Sure, Trevor,” Ron says from the passenger seat, clutching desperately at any available surface and looking the mirror image of Trevor. “Whatever you say,” he mutters, daring to turn up the radio a touch as the news comes on, careful not to adjust it too much lest Trevor lose his temper with him.

“-- _You’re listening to Weazel News, confirming your prejudices. After Niall Johnson was found dead in his hotel room last week, it was today confirmed that Pendragon have bought a controlling stock in his pioneering financial company, Johnson Banking. This comes just a month after the group bought out the remainder of Devin Weston Holdings, after Devin Weston’s unexplained disappearance. Arthur Pendragon gave a statement earlier today on the_ \--”

“Pendragon?” Trevor asks, spitting out of the side of the truck. They’re coming into Grapeseed now, back on the road to Trevor’s trailer in Sandy Shores. “You mean, the mob from LS that sent that little shit Melvin--”

“Merlin,” Ron corrects, too quietly for Trevor to hear.

“--out to Trevor Philips Industries to _spy_ on us?” Trevor asks, nearly roaring in his anger. They pull into Sandy Shores, the truck skidding to a stop outside of Trevor’s trailer. The heat is nearly unbearable without the wind whipping around their bodies. “I mean, I know I’m big news out in this desert but I still don’t get why they bothered to send him all the way up here.”

Ron shrugs as Trevor climbs out of the truck. “You hardly sent him back in good condition, though.”

Trevor laughs loudly from his front yard. “Firstly, he shouldn’t have been spyin’ on me, the little shit. Secondly, the kid was just beggin’ for an addiction, and Sandy Shores ain’t the capital of meth in Blaine County for no reason. Now, Ron. Kindly get the _fuck_ out of my truck and let’s talk business.”

“Oh, right,” Ron stutters, opening the door and easing himself down to the ground, careful not to twist his bad knee. “Right, boss. Whatever you say, Trevor, yes.”

Trevor’s trailer looks like a bomb has hit it, as usual, but possibly smells worse than normal. Trevor sits down on his sofa, spreading his legs wide and letting out a belch. “Well then?” he asks as Ron hovers by the door, jittery as always. “Business?”

“Business is, uh, is good,” Ron says, scratching the back of his neck. “The Lost MC are still out of town, no one’s trying to take over TPI, and Oscar said something about having a whole crate of sticky bombs coming through the area soon.”

“So we’re still in the green?” Trevor asks, as if he’s accusing Ron of lying. “No more threats to the business?”

Ron nods his head vigorously. “Yes, yes, yes. I mean, no more threats. Except. Well.”

Trevor growls. “Out. With. It. _Ron_ ,” he drawls.

Ron pushes his glasses up his nose. “Well. About the Pendragons. I’ve heard chatter on the waves about Arthur, the one who sent Merlin to you. Apparently Uther’s been giving more power to him, and they’re sucking up street gangs and drug runners faster than anything.”

“And this has _what_ relevance to me?” Trevor asks, spreading his arms wide.

“Well. I don’t think Arthur was very happy that you sent Merlin back thirty pounds lighter, covered in tattoos, and addicted to meth, but I... I might just be speculating.”

“So you’re saying he’s going to come after me?” Trevor scoffs. He pulls out a battered laptop from underneath his sofa, waking it from its sleep. After closing several browser windows full of porn (some of which including two men on screen), he uses EyeFind to look up _Arthur Pendragon_. “He looks like his balls haven’t dropped yet,” Trevor complains, and Ron laughs a little. “You’re telling me he’s a threat?”

“Well, he’s not the only Pendragon. There’s his father, and his... his younger _sister_.”

Trevor looks up at Ron, confused. “Sister? What’s she going to do, pillow fight me to death?” He starts typing again. “She can’t be...” Trevor goes silent, staring at his screen. “Holy shit.”

“Boss?” Ron tries.

“She can’t be related to that prick,” Trevor says, as if he’s just seen a ghost. “Nah. Nope. Not believin’ that for a second. Have you seen her?” Trevor turns the screen to Ron, showing him a picture of a model called Morgana Pendragon. “Jesus Christ. If they’re not related, I bet he’s balls deep in her every night.” He stops himself and sighs, looking up to the ceiling of his trailer. “No, no Trevor, that is _not_ the way to talk about a lady...” He looks back at his screen. “Even if she’s got tits that you could just bury your--”

“Well, I’m... I’ll just... They’re dangerous, Trevor. That’s all. And they’re pretty vengeful too.”

“I got the picture, Ron. Now fuck off so I can choke-n-stroke in peace, alright?”

Ron doesn’t need telling twice as he scuttles from Trevor’s trailer, the latter talking dirty to his laptop once more as he pulls his belt off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana has a bit of a revelation, and we learn more about the wonder that is Trevor Philips...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We learn how Pendragon works in this chapter, and GTA V fans, you meet most of the Merlin cast here - this is the extent of new faces you'll see pretty much :) let me know if you're enjoying this in the comments please! <3

Morgana arrives at the Pendragon offices in Downtown early one Monday morning, appreciating the small things on the drive over, like the blue sky high above the looming towers, or the fact that she hadn’t been recognised when she’d bought her coffee earlier on. Pendragon officially occupies the top two floors of the Arcadius Business Center, however they also unofficially own the helipad on the roof, and also the basement, which contains the illegitimate side’s armoury, extensive garage, and heist planning rooms.

Arthur truly does like to keep his hands clean.

“Good morning, Miss Pendragon,” the receptionist, Freya, smiles as Morgana arrives on the 34th floor. The offices are modern and spacious, decorated in the Pendragon red with a stark white contrast. Morgana smiles back tightly, shrugging her handbag further onto her shoulder and sauntering past the desk to the internal stairs, heading to the top floor. She has one mission only today, and that’s to talk to Arthur face to face about how ridiculous their working relationship has become.

Morgana doesn’t bother knocking on the door of Arthur’s office before she strides in, Didier Sachs heels clicking against the wooden floor. “Clear your schedule. We’re having a chat.”

Arthur looks up from his iFruit laptop, shutting the lid of it with a frown. “Morgana. What a pleasant surprise,” he deadpans. All blond hair and blue eyes, he should’ve been Morgana’s ideal man; the press has constantly reported on their supposedly secret relationship, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Morgana had hated Arthur from the very moment she first laid eyes on him, in the doorway of Aredian’s house in Dublin ten years ago, and that was never going to change.

Morgana takes a seat in the chair opposite Arthur’s desk, crossing her long, skinny jean-clad legs. Through the floor to ceiling windows to her right, she can see all of downtown Los Santos, the sun slowly creeping its way up into the sky. “Let me cut to the chase,” she says, pointing a manicured finger at Arthur. “I know the deal. I know that if I don’t do what you ask, you’ll take away everything I own, blah blah. But it gets to a point, where if you’re trying to control whether or not I have sex with people - when you’re trying to control my sexual _consent_ \- then we’re done.”

Arthur blinks at her, as if she’s stupid. “But this is how it’s worked for years. You work for me, I give you money. Cars. Pretty dresses. Any other girl would be perfectly happy.”

Morgana raises her eyebrows dangerously, lowering the tone of her voice. “I am _not_ any other girl, and you _know_ it. You’ve seen me with a gun, fuck, you’ve seen me with a broken wine bottle. You think one of those blonde bimbo Anna Rex models could do that?” She sits back in her seat again, point proven.

Arthur sighs, crossing his arms. He checks his watch. “What do you want?” he asks, tone bored.

“I want to be a part of the team, Arthur. I’ve been with Pendragon for ten years, isn’t that enough loyalty for you? I want to help plan some of the jobs, fuck, even do some of them. Could you imagine? I’d be in a balaclava, they wouldn’t even know what--”

“No. It’s not happening,” Arthur says, standing up. “Now, if you please, I have clients to see. Legitimate business clients who _made an appointment_ ,” Arthur stalks to the door and, ever the English gentleman, holds it open for Morgana. She stands, smoothing out her emerald blouse, taking her time to walk to the door.

“I’ll be having words with Uther about this,” Morgana says lowly, her face level with Arthur’s in her heels. “You know he has a soft spot for me, always has done. I was the little girl your Ma never gave him.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow, and Morgana smirks, knowing that her words hit their target. “Leave,” he hisses, and Morgana grins.

“Goodbye, darling brother,” she calls jovially over her shoulder, the various employees on the main office floor looking up from their work. “I can’t wait for our next _heart to heart_.” She hears the door slam behind her, but doesn’t bother to turn and look.

Morgana settles into her smaller, much cosier office, decorated with paintings of Irish landscapes and the countryside she now only sees on fashion shoots. Her desk is cluttered with doodles drawn during boring conference calls, half-finished dress designs (until recently, she’d been toying with the idea of launching her own fashion line), and forbidden sweet wrappers. Standing proud among it all is a faded photograph of Ma and Da, her beloved parents, on their wedding day in the early Eighties; one of the only possessions that made it with her from Dublin to Los Santos.

She boots up her computer, wasting a good half hour on Lifeinvader and Bleeter before she gets round to actually doing any work. Mondays are the only days she spends in this building, preferring to work from her apartment, or, when she can get away from one of Arthur’s babysitting goons, the little house she owns in Mirror Park, bought with the money she made on her first international fashion campaign.

Morgana makes quick work of her e-mails, sending a few Bleets about her ongoing Inspector Knickers campaign (which, she admits, was probably a bit racier than she’d been expecting it to be, but it’s Vinewood after all). She makes a brief phone call to her agent Elena, who thankfully knows nothing about her shadier activities for Pendragon and never questions her when she asks for invitations to parties she should never be attending.

Mid-morning, a friendly smile and tight curls of brown hair pop around the door to Morgana’s office. “Gwen!” she smiles, standing up from her desk to hug her best friend.

“I brought you tea,” she says, her American accent a little out of sorts in the Pendragon inner circle. “Just how you like it.”

“Gwen,” Morgana coos, touched by the gesture. She takes the mug from Gwen’s hands, a smile spreading across her face involuntarily. “How was Liberty City? I heard it’s lovely in the autumn.”

Gwen smiles widely, leaning against the closed door. “Oh Morgs, it was gorgeous. You have to go sometime, not just for the Fashion Week, but go just for the sake of it! Sitting in Central Park, the shopping...” Gwen sighs dreamily, and Morgana can see it all now, the orange leaves falling from the trees, hands wrapped around coffee cups. “Maybe next time I’ll have someone to share it with, is all.”

Morgana smiles sadly, rubbing Gwen’s arm soothingly. Since being hired as Arthur’s personal assistant three years ago, she’d soon become Morgana’s only true confidant in the organisation, mostly thanks to her complete lack of involvement with Morgana’s forced departure from Dublin. Morgana knew that Gwen had developed feelings for Arthur quite early on (although God only knows why, in Morgana’s opinion), for him to fuck her once and then toss her aside, as if she were a piece of meat.

It simply gave Morgana another reason to hate Arthur, as Gwen had never harmed a fly in her life and deserved no such treatment.

“There _will_ be someone, Gwen,” Morgana says, setting her tea down on her desk and putting her hands on her friend’s shoulders. “Otherwise, if we’re both single by the time we’re thirty, remember what I said?”

Gwen laughs, although it’s not her usual infectious giggle. “That we’d get married. I’ve got five years, and you’ve got six ‘til then. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“That’s the spirit,” Morgana grins, and Gwen does laugh properly this time. “Thank you for the tea, by the way. Is Arthur not keeping you rushed off your feet after your trip?” Morgana rolls her eyes. “It _was_ business, after all, but he wouldn’t remember that, would he?”

Gwen has gone silent, eyes cast at the floor. Morgana pauses. “Gwen?”

“He’s downstairs in the planning room,” she whispers, unable to keep a secret from Morgana. “He told me not to tell you...”

Morgana grits her teeth; her step-brother planning jobs without her is normal, but Morgana being specifically excluded from the process is brand-new, and it stings. She grabs her handbag from beside her chair, and her phone from her desk. “Thank you for the tea, I’ll only be a few minutes,” she says, kissing Gwen on the cheek before leaving her office.

The elevator echoes with the sound of Morgana’s shoe impatiently tapping the metal floor, before it finally comes to a rest at the bottom of its shaft. Morgana punches in the key code for this level, surprised that after this morning’s conversation, Arthur hadn’t had the foresight to change the password already. Passing the doors for the armoury and the parking garage (in which her beloved Grotti Carbonizzare waits for her), she bursts into the planning room, startling the six men gathered around the conference table.

“And what the fuck is this?” Morgana asks, gesturing her hands widely at the gaggle of men. Arthur shoves at Merlin’s shoulder and he jumps up, beginning to scrub plans and figures off the whiteboard. “Leave it,” she says loudly, and Merlin turns to her like a rabbit in the headlights. “I said, _leave it_ , Merlin.”

The man cowering against the whiteboard now holds absolutely no resemblance to the boy she left Dublin with eight years ago. Eyes which once were such a wonderful blue are now vacant, skin so flawless is now covered in pock marks, all thanks to some meth dealer out in the desert who saw to destroy a beautiful man for the sake of it.

“Morgana,” Arthur says, voice cutting like a knife. He stands from his seat, looking nothing like the criminal he is in a charcoal suit and blood-red tie. Morgana can clearly see the words “targets must be eliminated” in red marker on the board still. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Since _when_ was I not allowed in the planning room?” Morgana looks between the men gathered around the table; she likes to call them goons, whereas Arthur refers to them as his knights. Same difference, she thinks; both follow a leader too inept to protect himself. “Leon? Lance? Remember a time when I was expressly told I couldn’t come down here?”

“Morgs--”

“Gwaine, _fuck off_ ,” Morgana says, raising a finger. “If I wanted your opinion, I could ask any fucking coke-head in Los Santos. Arthur,” she says, turning back to the blond at the head of the table. “Who’s running this little job of yours, then? You’re at the Maze Bank conference this week, so it’s not you, is it? Unless, of course, your head is shoved so far up your arse that you’ve mastered the technique of being in two places at once.”

Leaning his weight against the table, Arthur clenches his jaw as Morgana waits, lips pursed and a face full of fury. “Merlin.”

Morgana laughs, a trill thing that visibly unsettles the seated men. “Merlin? _Merlin_? Good one, Arthur.” She sobers quickly. “He can’t even fucking _talk_ properly anymore. Are you seriously considering him as a lead instead of me?” The man in question remains cowering in the corner by the whiteboard, hair dishevelled and eyes vacant.

Arthur straightens to his full height, raising a single eyebrow. “You were never considered in the first place.”

Morgana stares at him for a moment, feeling all of the eyes in the room on her but she only has eyes for Arthur. Leon, Lance, Gwaine, Percival, even Merlin, not a single one of them comes to her aid. Men she’s worked with for years now, who’ve been her bodyguards (or prison wardens) day in, day out... nothing.

“Fuck you,” she says slowly, putting emphasis on every syllable. “Fuck you, Arthur Pendragon. I’m not just some... some _doll_ to be used as and when you feel like it!” She jabs a finger towards the whiteboard. “I had _plans_ for this family!” she shouts. “Real fucking plans. I felt like I _belonged_. That I was finally one of you,” she says, gesturing to the gathered men with one hand. “Well, fuck, Arthur, you’ve fucking proved me wrong there.”

Morgana turns to leave the room, gritting her teeth to fight against the torrent of emotion overwhelming her. “Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur asks, as if he doesn’t particularly care. Morgana knows he cares at a basic level, at least - Morgana is an investment, worth hard cash, and she should not be allowed to slip away so easily.

“Away. Anywhere but here,” she says over her shoulder, reaching for her car keys inside her handbag. Her hand is on the door handle when she hears the hushed command. _Follow her_.

Her fingers curl around the grip of the gun in her bag instead of her keys. Morgana draws it from the bag in a self-defence move she perfected long ago, gesturing around the room before keeping it pointed on Arthur. “No, you won’t,” she says quietly, voice beginning to break. “You leave me the fuck alone. Don’t call me, don’t track me, and don’t try to get Gaius to do his computer wizardry on me. I don’t want to be _fucking_ _found_!” Her bottom lip wobbles once as she sees the utter hatred in Arthur’s eyes, so like Uther’s. “I’ll come back when I’m ready,” she says in a rush, the words tumbling from her mouth as she turns and flees, holding her gun in one hand as she runs down the corridor towards the entrance to the garage, punching in the code and locking the door behind her.

A few sobs begin to escape from her chest as she dumps her bag on the bonnet of her car, digging around desperately for car keys that refuse to be found. Finally, her fingers grasp them, quickly pressing the fob to unlock the car. She climbs in, throwing her bag onto the passenger seat, her gun right at the top, just in case Arthur doesn’t listen to her request (and Morgana’s doubtful he will).

The car springs to life as Morgana turns the key in the ignition, the beautiful Italian engine purring under the matte black hood. The door to the garage curls open as Morgana presses another button on her car keys, and she wastes no time putting the convertible roof back up before pulling out onto the street, barely remembering to fasten her seatbelt as the tyres squeal beneath her. Within moments, she’s roaring down the Del Perro Freeway, with only the slightest idea of where she’s going and an overwhelming feeling of freedom, however stupid or reckless.

She knows that this is only a moment’s grace, that Arthur will come looking for her within a day or so. She has to act fast, get out of the city and get off the map completely, at least until she can work out her plan of action. Morgana knows she’s not going back. She thinks of Gwen, the abandoned cup of tea and everything that means, but she cannot go back to be bullied into having sex with people, and to have a meth-head fuck up the only thing she has here in Los Santos.

Morgana turns the radio up, the music competing with the roar of the engine as she puts her foot down. She digs her aviators out of her bag, puts them on and allows herself to smile, because she’s just worked out the one place that Arthur would never think to look for her.

Who was Arthur so scared of that last year, he sent Merlin out to spy on them? Who did Arthur now hate even more, because his precious toy Merlin had been sent back to him with his enemy’s name tattooed across his arse? Morgana tips her head back and laughs at the memory of Arthur discovering it, the fury on his face.

Morgana doubts that Trevor Philips will be happy to see a Pendragon in his town, but maybe he’ll hear out her plans for the business, unlike Arthur did. Her plans mostly involve her taking over Pendragon once and for all; Arthur had simply just lit the match for his own funeral pyre. And if Trevor Philips doesn’t want to help her? Too bad for him. She has absolutely nothing to lose, and absolutely everything to gain.

*

Trevor flicks through the channels on his television idly, growling in frustration when he can’t find another Impotent Rage episode to watch. He hurls the remote at the screen, which dinks against the glass before clattering to the floor. Outside, the sun is beginning to stain the sky pink and orange, and Trevor gets up to turn on the lights inside his trailer, illuminating the cockroaches skittering under the kitchen cupboards, and the pizza boxes stacked up along one wall. He surveys his surroundings and grunts, unsure if he’s happy with them.

He hears an engine outside; it’s not his truck, which he considers is nice; it means the bikers aren’t trying to jack it again. It sounds much more expensive than that. Michael or Franklin, coming to pay him a visit? Trevor laughs out loud at the thought.

 _Knock knock_.

Wiping his dirty hands on his equally dirty sweatpants, Trevor crosses his trailer to open the door.

There, in the doorway, stands the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Long wavy black hair frames her face, and as she pushes her aviators up onto the top of her head, he can see clear, light green eyes staring back at him. Her green shirt, skinny jeans and high heels all scream _expensive_ and _too good to be true_.

“Hahaha,” Trevor says. “Good joke.”

He shuts the door.

Morgana Pendragon? At his door? This has to be a hallucination. Granted, he hadn’t touched the crystal in three days, but things like this didn’t happen to guys like him. Especially after he’d only discovered that she existed a week ago, via one lurid EyeFind search after another.

 _Knock knock knock_.

He opens the door again.

“Look,” she says immediately, and he raises his eyebrows when he identifies an Irish accent in her voice. “I didn’t drive four hours into the fucking desert - and then have to stop at a pub to find out where you are, to have the locals try to nick my car from _under my nose_ \- for you to then laugh at me and shut the door in my fucking face.”

Trevor opens his mouth to interject, but she raises a finger at his face. “I know I’m a Pendragon by name, and I know you have beef with Arthur. But that’s with _Arthur_. I need your help.”

Trevor raises his eyebrows, laughing a little. “I’m sorry, let me just get that right. You, Miss Pendragon, well renowned supermodel and Inspector Knickers girl - nice tits by the way,” he smiles in a compliment, the lady before him growing furious, “has _just_ turned up at the door of my shitty trailer out here in the wonderful town of Sandy Shores, and you’re expecting me to not be _surprised_?”

Morgana crosses her arms, tossing her hair back a little. She’s nearly Trevor’s height in those heels. “I’m expecting you to help me.”

“And why oh why would I do that, Princess?” Trevor asks, gesturing with his hands. “You’ve got all the money in the world. You don’t need my help.”

“Yes I do,” she says, tipping her chin up. “I want to get rid of Arthur. Uther too.”

“Get rid as in, remove him from power or...” Trevor drawls, playing dumb just a little as it’s winding up the entitled model in front of him, and her anger is quite amusing.

“As in _kill_ him, you fucking moron,” she gasps, putting her hands on her hips.

“ _You fucking moron_ ,” Trevor mocks, imitating a broad Irish accent which sounds nothing like Morgana’s. In seconds, Morgana has him pushed up against the wall of his trailer, hand around his throat.

“You take the mick out of my accent again, you’re dead, you hear me?” she seethes.

Trevor starts to laugh, and Morgana eases the pressure off. “And what on earth is so funny?” she asks, and Trevor can’t help but keep laughing. She releases him and he clutches his stomach.

“Oh,” he wheezes. “We’re going to get along just _fine_.” Trevor wipes at the corner of his eye. “You might as well come in, then,” he says, looking around as they both stand in the middle of his tiny trailer already. “You want a beer?” he asks, automatically going to the table and opening one for his guest anyway, before she has a chance to reply.

“Thanks,” she says warily, taking the warm bottle and glancing around at the trailer. Trevor opens his own beer, wishing at least he’d managed to hide some of his glass pipes or the porn magazines. He makes sure the lid of his laptop is firmly closed. “Can I sit?”

“Well, I wouldn’t,” Trevor says, and his hesitation is all Morgana needs as an answer. She laughs a little, under her breath, and perches herself on the very edge of the cleanest part of the sofa.

“It’s funny, actually,” she says, staring down at her beer bottle. “This place reminds me a bit of Dublin.”

Trevor sits on the sofa as well, albeit a respectable distance from his guest. He doesn’t want to frighten her off too soon, not before he’d heard her plan, or maybe seen her tits, anyway. “How the fuck does this shitty piece of desert remind you of Dublin?”

“Because it’s broken,” she says, giving him a sad smile. “It’s not all pretty and plastic like Vinewood, all fake perfection and so much glitter you can’t see the shit underneath.” Morgana takes a sip of her beer, pulling a face at the taste. “Dublin was gritty and noisy, every other person on the street would happily grass you to the Garda - the cops,” she says with a look, “and there were drugs on every street corner. I know it’s like that in Vinewood, but here... the people don’t seem to care, they’re not trying to disguise it, it’s just the way it is.” She shrugs, taking another sip of her beer. “Or that’s how it looks to me, anyway.”

Trevor raises his beer to her. “Not just a pretty face,” he says lowly, before taking a swig.

Morgana rolls her eyes, turning to him. “I’ll have you know I’m actually pretty fucking smart. Why did you think I came all the way out here? Arthur’s hardly going to expect me to have shacked up with one of his enemies, is he?”

“Woah, woah, you’re staying here?” Trevor says, beginning to smile.

Morgana blushes. “No, I didn’t mean it like--”

“I mean, I always have room for one more. Although I charge rent. Namely a hand job per night, and you gotta suck me off if you want breakfast.”

Morgana stares at him with an ice glare, before she stands up and upends her nearly-full bottle of beer over his head. It glugs out of the bottle slowly to soak Trevor’s hair and t-shirt. “Okay,” he says, blowing beer off his lips with his eyes screwed shut. “I probably deserved that.”

Morgana roots in her bag before tossing a business card at Trevor, who pulls his sodden shirt off and starts wiping at his face with it. She notices that his chest and arms are covered in tattoos. One of them is in memory of a brother called Michael. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, when you’re ready to talk business. Call me if you grow up in the meantime.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Trevor asks. He doesn’t miss the way Morgana flinches at the question. She turns back to face him.

“I’m getting a motel. At least there, if a stranger molests me in the night, it won’t be _you_.” She slams the door shut behind her as she leaves.

“So, T,” Trevor says to himself, clutching the wet t-shirt between his hands. “I’d say that went _really_ fucking well.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friendship is forged and a trap is set...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you're still enjoying this! The plot starts to form now and it'll pick up pace a bit :D

Morgana sleeps terribly.

It’s nothing new to her, really. Her whole life, she’s been plagued with nightmares; visions of her parents dying (a sight she never saw herself, thank God), visions of her own death, and visions of things that may or may not happen in the future. She doesn’t know if she’s some kind of psychic - Los Santos has taught her that anything is possible - and many of her dreams are simply a load of nonsense, but sometimes, just sometimes, they’re not.

She sits up in the stale-smelling sheets, swinging her feet over the side of the bed. “Fuck,” she whispers to herself hoarsely, rubbing her forehead with one hand in an attempt to erase the memories of last night’s dream; it involved Trevor, a secluded beach somewhere, and a helicopter. “The fuck am I on?” she mutters to herself, before combing her wild hair through with her fingers and tying it in a messy ponytail.

Morgana has always had the foresight to keep a grab bag stashed under the passenger seat of her Carbonizzare, in case a job went wrong or she escaped a controlling step-brother to a shitty motel in the middle of the desert, for instance. She rifles through its contents now, pulling out toiletries, a make-up bag, some spare clothes, a fake passport, and a blonde wig. The latter dangles between her fingers as she studies it, before throwing it aside for now; Sandy Shores doesn’t strike her as the kind of place to keep up to date with the celebrities of the day.

Morgana runs a tepid bath, peeling off the shirt she had slept in last night. It’s early in the morning, yet Morgana is sweltering in her motel room, missing the blessed air conditioning of the city. She rolls her eyes at her own materialism, forcibly reminding herself of the city she came from, of her true roots, and the fortune she’d had escaping those.

The fortune she was very shortly going to throw back in the Pendragons’ faces.

She doesn’t linger in the bath long enough to begin noticing just how much of the tiling is mouldy, instead simply scrubbing away the sand and sweat of yesterday before towelling herself off. Her outfit today is plain leggings, an oversized blue t-shirt, and black pumps, making a note to head to a discount clothing store at some point to pick up some clothes that don’t look like they’ve come straight off the catwalk.

Although that logic would require putting her beloved supercar into storage, something she can’t quite bear the thought of just yet. She winces at the thought as she puts on her make-up, taking her time to do it well; you can take a girl out of the city, but you can’t take a model away from her cosmetics.

She takes all of her possessions with her as she leaves the motel for the day, despite not having yet checked out; she doesn’t like the look of the shifty teenage boy manning the reception desk. Morgana had driven to a neighbouring town called Harmony to find a motel as Sandy Shores, for all its outdated billboards advertising it as a seaside resort, didn’t have one that wasn’t abandoned or crumbling to the ground.

Her car blips as she unlocks it in the parking lot. “Oh, I missed you too,” she coos under her breath, stroking the paintwork with her fingertips before she gets in, putting her handbag and grab bag on the passenger side. “I’m sorry for bringing you out to this shitty desert,” she continues, running her hand over the steering wheel before starting the engine. Wasting no time in escaping the confines of the motel, Morgana pulls onto Route 68 once more, allowing the Carbonizzare to stretch its legs, so to speak.

The Grand Senora Desert contains a few scattered, run-down towns, of which Harmony and Sandy Shores are just two. It used to be a quaint little place; Morgana remembers a weekend spent by the shores of the Alamo Sea when she was younger, before the water was contaminated with nuclear waste and the towns became overrun with meth addicts. She grips the steering wheel a little harder, thinking about Merlin and all that Trevor had done to him, the boy she once loved.

“That was a long time ago now, Gana,” she says to herself, pulling into the small maze of trailers among which sits Trevor’s. “Back when you were still kids, still Dubliners. Different now.”

She pulls up outside Trevor’s trailer, allowing the cloud of dust following the car to float over it before she gets out. Immediately, she sees movement on the porch; an older looking man, wearing a fishing hat and walking with a prominent limp. “You’re Morgana, right?”

Morgana crosses her arms, leaning against the side of her car. “Depends who’s asking.”

“My name’s Ron. Ron Jakowski, CEO of Trevor Philips Industries,” he says, nodding to himself as if he’s unsure.

“Really?” Morgana asks, smirking. “Trevor runs a business? Judging by his personal hygiene, I’d say he can’t even run a bath so a business is quite a leap.”

“I’m _right here_ ,” Trevor says, having stood up from the sofa on the porch and emerged into Morgana’s line of sight. She waves mockingly, smiling to say that she knew he was there all along. “Are we gonna talk business or are you going to just insult me all day?”

Morgana pushes her aviators onto the top of her head. “I don’t know,” she says, exaggerating her deliberation. “There’s a lot of material I haven’t even touched on yet. Pouring a beer over your head last night was just the tip of the iceberg.”

Trevor huffs. “Sweetcheeks, if you don’t get up here in the next three seconds, that beloved Grotti of yours will meet an _unfortunate_ end down at the cement works.”

Morgana raises her eyebrows but says nothing more, simply opening the door on the passenger side to retrieve her handbag. Trevor sits down on the sofa again as she walks up the porch steps, motioning to his side for her to join him. Happy to be out in the fresh air instead of inside the hot box which is Trevor’s trailer, Morgana gladly accepts, Ron perching on the edge of the table opposite them.

“Here’s the deal,” Trevor starts straight away. Morgana’s noticed he talks with his body language a lot, his hands and arms constantly expressing his emotions. He spreads them widely. “We’ve been betrayed by a Pendragon before. We want to make sure it’s not going to happen again.”

“And another Irish person, as well,” Ron pipes up, nodding to himself.

Morgana looks between them in shock, before her glare lands on Ron. “Are you kidding me? We’re playing the heritage game? Because with a last name like yours, you’re certainly not all American, and I know _his_ accent is Canadian,” she says, jerking her thumb towards Trevor.

“It’s a faint fucking accent!” Trevor says, suddenly furious. He exhales, calming himself down. “Ron, shut the fuck up and wait your turn,” he growls, before he turns to Morgana again. “No one is discriminating _anyone_ , alright? I just want to suss you out a bit before I agree to help you, because last time a Pendragon was here, we got fucked over. Okay?”

“Fine,” Morgana says, crossing her arms and sitting back in the sofa. “Fire away.”

“How old are you?” Trevor asks.

Morgana raises an eyebrow but answers the question. “Twenty-four.”

“Alright,” Trevor says, not giving away whether Morgana’s answer was satisfactory or not. He interlocks his fingers; the words _fuck you_ are tattooed across his knuckles. “What drugs have you done?”

Morgana initially wants to protest the question, but it’s harmless; Trevor is hardly going to go running to the tabloids with her answers, as a drug dealer himself. She hums. “Weed, when I was younger and back in Ireland.” The corner of her mouth twitches down for a moment. “Coke, at a party I went to. It wasn’t a very consensual thing, mind.”

Trevor wrinkles his nose. “Coke, ugh. You gotta be dealing something addictive in this business otherwise you’re not going to secure a client base.”

Morgana smiles a little at the sound logic behind Trevor’s words. “I think that’s it, though. I hardly even drink, really, I’m often sober at parties because I’m always _working_.” She curls her fingers in air quotations so they know just what kind of work she’s doing.

Ron clears his throat. “How many people have you killed?”

Morgana looks to the roof of the porch, thinking of her answer. “I don’t know,” she says eventually.

“Liar,” Trevor cuts in, before scooting just a little closer on the sofa, animated at the idea of the supermodel at his side having taken someone’s life. “Ballpark figure, c’mon.”

She sighs. “Over the last five years? Nearly a hundred, probably. I don’t keep count though, that shit sticks with you if you do, fucks you up.”

Trevor makes a sound as if that’s an acceptable answer, before he presses on. “Why do you want Arthur dead?”

“Uther too,” Morgana says, looking at Ron out of the corner of her eye, as if for approval.

Trevor sighs exasperatedly. “All the fucking Pendragons, whatever. Aren’t you part of their family?”

“Yeah, and?” she says, sitting up straight again, her hands beginning to talk for her without her permission. “Have you ever been let down by _your_ family?” she says, pointing at Trevor. He flinches. _Bingo_. “Family can be shit. I didn’t choose to come here with the Pendragons, it was this or death. I was a coward, I chose this. And it’s never been too bad, y’know? Money on tap, everything I never had when I was a kid. It’s been alright, but what have I lost?” Morgana begins to tick items off on her fingers. “Lost the ability to have anything of my own, because it’s all owned by the family, so I don’t betray them.”

Trevor smirks a little at that. Morgana licks her lips before continuing.

“Lost control of my body, too. Arthur _insists_ that I sleep with the marks before I kill them.”

“Don’t know if your brother has worked this out, sweetheart, but you’re more likely to leave DNA and shit there if you do,” Trevor interjects.

Morgana’s eyes light up. “Exactly! He does it because he knows he has me under his control. Since Uther started giving Arthur more power, he’s just treated me more and more like a fucking doll. He’s a twisted pervert who can’t organise crime to save his life. He put _Merlin_ in charge of a job yesterday, for fuck’s sake.”

Trevor stares at Morgana for a moment, before he roars with laughter, doubling up on the sofa and clutching his stomach. “You’re kidding,” Ron says as Trevor beats the arm of the sofa, dust floating out of the fabric.

“He said he’d rather have Merlin do a job than me, he’s that desperate to not get his hands bloody.”

“Wow,” Ron drawls, as Trevor wipes at his eyes.

“Surely,” Trevor says, composing himself. “Surely if Arthur’s putting Merlin in charge of jobs, he’s gonna get himself killed anyway. Why do you need my help?”

Morgana sighs. “I’d do it myself, but the illegal side of our business needs funds from the legal side to run: the investors, the shareholders, all that jazz. If I take him out myself, it’ll reek of an internal takeover and they’ll lose faith. That’s why I need a crew, I need it to look like an external party, for whatever motive or reason. And who’s best placed to be taking revenge on Pendragon?”

Trevor smiles. “Someone who got fucked over by them last year. Like I said, Ron, she’s not just a pretty face, y’know?”

Ron nods fervently. “Yep, yep, I said you were right, boss, you're always right.”

“So you’re in?” Morgana asks Trevor, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. Soon, Arthur will be gone for good, and she can run Pendragon just as she pleases. “How much will it cost?”

“I’m not taking money from you, sweetcheeks. How will that look on the Pendragon books, a big fat check going over to Trevor Philips Enterprises? Not good. Plus, I don’t need your money. I’m pretty well set up,” Trevor says, putting his hands behind his head. Morgana finds her gaze drawn towards his biceps, quite large considering his relatively average frame and height, before she drags her eyes away. It makes her next words more convincing.

“Fine then,” she says nonchalantly. “Sex, instead? Because that’s the only other thing I can pay you with, and apparently the only other thing I’m good at, either,” Morgana snaps, the words venom on her tongue. Ron’s eyes bug out of his head, and Trevor opens and closes his mouth a couple of times.

“I... Shit, _shit_ ,” Trevor says, pulling at what’s left of his hair and leaning forward, before sitting up again. “It physically and emotionally _pains_ me to say no... but.... fuck, I’m a moron, but no. I can’t say yes to that.”

Morgana clears her throat lightly when she realises Trevor’s gaze has dropped to her breasts. He looks up again, to the slight smirk on her face. “You’re attractive, alright? Christ, never seen a girl so thirsty for a compliment,” he says without meeting her eyes, glancing up at Ron and back. Morgana smiles at his discomfort.

“Well then? It’ll be a debt I owe you. I can’t just leave it unpaid, that’s not how I do things,” Morgana says, smoothing a few stray grains of sand off her leggings. She looks up at Trevor expectantly, deep in thought.

“Stay here.”

Morgana scoffs. “What?”

“Look, Missy,” Trevor says, becoming defensive. “In this line of work I don’t have many friends.”

“You’ve got me, T,” Ron pipes up.

Trevor silences him with a glare. “I’m stuck with you and Wade, whether I like it or not.” Morgana wonders who the other member of their business is, but doesn’t press for the information when Trevor turns to her, hands curled into fists on his knees.

“I’m a good fucking person, Morgana,” he says, and it’s the first time he’s said her name. It sounds right at home on his tongue, and that feeling makes Morgana shiver. “But people just don’t like me. I don’t have friends, at least I don’t have friends who wouldn’t stab me in the back, but that’s another story entirely...”

Morgana doesn’t think before reaching out and putting her fingers on Trevor’s hand, the fist relaxing at her touch. His skin is warm on her fingertips, and he looks to her in surprise. “Alright. I’ll stay for a bit, it’s the least I can do. And I’ll try not to tip any more bottles of beer over your head.”

Trevor smiles. “I’ll probably still make crude jokes, but I do that with everyone. Except Ron. If I joked with him about giving me a blowie he’d get down on his fucking knees and do it.”

“Hey!” Ron interjects weakly.

Morgana looks between the pair quickly, a small smile on her lips. “I might have to go to the city for work, though.”

Trevor perks up at that, and she removes her hand. “Of course. We’ll have to go in at some point for some reconnaissance, plus we’ll need some special vehicles... we’ve got a raid to plan!” Trevor leaps up from his seat, clapping Ron hard on the back as he squeezes past Morgana to jump down the steps of his porch. Ron makes a pained noise. “Trevor Philips Conglomerate, back in business!”

Morgana allows herself to laugh as Trevor celebrates in his front yard, in full view of the passers-by in the street, with absolutely no fucks left to give the world. Ron giggles as well as Trevor bounds up the steps again, pausing as he thinks. “I’ll have to call the boys. Fuck, the Unholy Trinity back in action. Lester, too, he can get me everything I need... yes, this is going to be _amazing_ ,” Trevor says, grinning widely, and Morgana can’t help but grin back, standing up from the sofa and letting herself be pulled out into the tide of chaos.

*

Arthur’s mobile rings once before he answers it. “Gaius.”

A sigh from the other end. “The tracker on her car is gone, it’s registering as a location in Downtown - her apartment, I assume. It’s been there for a few weeks now, Morgana was either planning her disappearance or she simply got fed up of the surveillance--”

“ _Gaius_ ,” Arthur repeats, almost a growl.

“Right, yes,” the voice says at the other end. Gaius was picked up in San Fierro years ago when Pendragon had first arrived in America, when he was a recently laid-off technology whizz in need of some employment, no matter how legitimate. “Those secret cameras you put in her apartment haven’t picked up any movement since the morning she disappeared. I can’t track her cell phone unless she makes a call of more than thirty or so seconds to a contact we know, and I’d have to be sat at my computer while she does so... Arthur, it appears that she doesn’t want to be found.”

Arthur crumples the piece of paper he’d been reading in his fist. “I don’t pay you to point out the obvious, Gaius, I pay you so you can find people. You need to find Morgana, or I’m going to lose my patience _very_ quickly.”

Arthur can practically hear the older man raise his eyebrow at the other end of the line. “Yes, _sire_ ,” Gaius huffs, before he hangs up. Arthur stares at his phone for a moment before he throws it across the room, smiling grimly as it splinters into thousands of tiny parts against the opposite wall. He presses the button on his intercom.

“Yes, Arthur?” Gwen’s cheery voice answers. Arthur rolls her eyes; when will she learn that being desperate isn’t an attractive trait?

“I need you to get me Morgana’s agent on the line,” he says, steepling his fingers as he stares at his broken phone on the other side of the room. He’ll buy another one later. “Sometime today,” he adds, even though the line has already began ringing. He picks up the handset on his office landline. “Hello?”

“Mister Pendragon!” a female voice squeaks at the other end of the line. “My name’s Elena, it’s so good to finally speak to you. How can I help you today?”

Arthur smiles, he can use the girl’s fawning to his advantage; manipulating people has always been his strong point. “Our poor Morgana has got a cold today, bless her, and she’s lost her voice,” he lies. “If I remember correctly, Maze Bank are having their annual dinner in the Gentry Manor Hotel in a couple of weeks’ time?”

Arthur can hear papers being shuffled at the end of the line. “It’s this Friday, actually, and it’s a masquerade ball, not a dinner. I think it’s sponsored by Sessanta Nove this year,” Elena says, and Arthur blinks at the paper calendar on his desk, changing the Tuesday to Wednesday.

“I do apologise, I must’ve gotten my dates a bit mixed up. Terribly sorry,” he says, putting on his English accent a little bit because he knows the effect it has on the ladies of San Andreas. “I don’t suppose you’d be able to get Morgana an invite, would you? I’ll be there for Pendragon but I can’t get another ticket, I’m sure someone with a network like yours would be able to do it easily.”

Elena giggles at the other end of the line, and Arthur smiles to himself, running a hand through his blond hair. He reckons Elena could be an easy lay, and decides to call her again next week. “I’ll work my magic, as always. Shall I send her the details?”

“Please,” Arthur drawls, “she’s sick of hearing my voice already, and I’ll get something wrong, won’t I Morgana?” he says to his empty office, pulling the receiver from his ear for a moment. “She’ll be better by the weekend, she says, and she sends her love.”

“Awesome! I’ll make sure she’s there. Speak soon, Arthur,” Elena says before she hangs up.

Arthur puts the phone back down into his handset and sits back in his luxury office chair, hands behind his head. With the trap set, all he has to do is wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana meets the rest of the Unholy Trinity, and a plan is formed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlin fans, you get to meet the other two main characters from Grand Theft Auto in this chapter. I hope you like them! <3

Morgana pulls a cream dress from the rail, holding it up against her body to find that it’s short even for hillbilly standards. She puts it back again, repeating the process with a pink one. What is with Blaine County and its ability to provide clothes that fit a leggy model? She settles for the items she’s already picked up: a few pairs of jeans, some shorts, and half a dozen t-shirts, her attempts to settle in in Sandy Shores. As the cashier rings them up, her mobile phone begins to buzz in the pocket of her jeans. She answers it warily.

“Sweetcheeks, it’s me,” Trevor says, and Morgana relaxes. No one could imitate Trevor that well, she’s pretty sure he’s one of a kind in his own twisted way. “Are you around?”

“I’m buying some clothes in Harmony, but I can be back in a few minutes. What’s up?”

“My _business partners_ from LS have come up for a visit,” Trevor says, and Morgana assumes he’s talking about that ‘Unholy Trinity’ again. She rolls her eyes. “They’re gonna be working with us for your job, so you better come say hello.”

Trevor’s tone of voice leaves no room for argument, but Morgana doesn’t need it; she’s curious to meet these men who know Trevor so well. “I’ll be there in five.”

The cashier hands her the receipt, and she takes the bag out to her car, her baby looking much dirtier than normal, even after having been in the desert for only three days. The journey back to Sandy Shores is short; the lack of police cars means that Morgana can happily risk her life and those of the drivers around her to give her engine a run for its money. She pulls up in front of Trevor’s trailer to find a black Tailgater parked alongside his red Bodhi.

Morgana flips her sun visor down to check her reflection in the mirror there, her hair hanging in natural curls around her face and her make-up still perfect. Satisfied, she gets out of the car, heading towards the trailer, her ears picking up on a loud conversation from inside.

“-shit, man, that’s fucked up,” comes through the door, muffled, and Morgana pauses, stealthily moving to lean against the wall and listen.

“Franklin’s right, T. We can’t take on Pendragon,” another new voice says.

Morgana can hear Trevor growl in frustration. “We took on the fucking Union Depository, remember?” Morgana’s eyebrows shoot towards her hairline. That hadn’t been on Trevor’s file, and she’s positive that Arthur doesn’t know that the greatest bank robbery in modern American history had been conducted by Trevor Philips and his associates. “Who says we can’t take on some British pricks in suits?”

“ _I_ say it, T!” the one with the Midwestern accent says. “We retired. We’re fucking done. We aren’t doing shit for anyone anymore. I’ve got the family to think of, the kids. I can’t keep doing this.”

Trevor sighs. “Franklin?”

The conversation becomes muffled, and Morgana chooses to spare Trevor some of the hard work of swaying their opinions. She noisily climbs the porch steps, before pushing the trailer door open with a smile. “Hi,” she says cheerily, taking in the new faces in the trailer. Standing closest to Trevor is a middle-aged white man in a suit, looking an awful lot like a banker, and the other man, a younger black man with muscles bigger than Trevor’s and an equally unimpressed look on his face. “My name’s Morgana,” she smiles, giving a little wave then putting her hands on her hips. Trevor looks edgily at his friends. “Are you going to introduce us?” she asks Trevor, who tugs on the hem of his polo shirt.

“Right, right. This is Mikey, I mean, _Michael_ , my best friend, a lying snake, and a producer of shitty movies,” Trevor says, gesturing to older man.

“Hey!” Michael says, glaring at Trevor for a moment. Morgana extends her hand, and Michael shakes it after a second’s pause. “Pleasure,” he says begrudgingly.

“Wait, are you Michael De Santa?” Morgana asks, connecting the dots. She’d seen him at a premier or two before, she’s sure, but her question is confirmed when his eyes light up. “Meltdown, right? I saw it opening weekend, really enjoyed it.” She’d thought it was average, really, but Michael smiles at that. Who said flattery gets you nowhere?

“And this,” Trevor says, “this is Franklin. Best driver in the whole of San Andreas and the Mother Teresa to me and Mikey’s constant... ah, _disagreements_.”

“Man, fuck you,” Franklin says, but it’s without most of its heat. “Morgana Pendragon, damn,” he says, and Morgana can’t help but smirk a little as they bump fists. “Never thought I’d have the honour,” he says with a smile.

“Alright, enough with the flirting,” Trevor interrupts, almost too quickly. “We got business to settle.”

“No offence T, but I ain't talking shit in your crib. It smells like old man,” Franklin says, waving his hand under his nose dramatically.

“Hey!” Michael and Trevor interject simultaneously, before looking at each other. Morgana watches on, bemused as to how this ‘Unholy Trinity’ managed to take on one of the biggest banks in America, and live.

“Fine. Franklin, if you're gonna get your panties in a twist, we'll go to Hookies,” Michael says, and Morgana laughs nervously.

“Hookies? I'm sorry, no, I'm not discussing this in a strip joint,” she argues, watching their confusion turn to laughter. “What's so funny?”

“Hookies is a diner, _my_ diner,” Michael says defensively, “one of the finest diners on the West Coast.”

“Mikey,” Trevor says, throwing an arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Be nice. She ain't ever been out of Vinewood, this little starlet of ours.”

Morgana turns a deep shade of red but doesn't apologise. “Fine, but my car only fits two.”

“Oh no, you're not driving that thing,” Michael says, Morgana’s face falling. “You're coming with me. We have _lots_ to talk about. T and F can go in the truck.”

“Good thing I only had a couple of hits off the pipe this morning, eh Frankie?” Trevor goads, nudging Franklin’s side on the way out of his trailer.

“Shit man,” Franklin groans, throwing his hands up in the air as he follows. “You owe me, dude,” he says, before he mutters his next words. “If I fuckin’ survive.”

Michael laughs it off, dismissing Franklin with a hand as Morgana is led out of the trailer, a little dumbfounded. Michael opens the passenger side door for her, Morgana muttering an embarrassed “thanks” under her breath. Only once they're both in the car and pulling onto the road does Michael begin to talk.

“Trevor’s bad news. That's the first thing you gotta know,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. He pulls onto Route 68, heading west.

“He called you a lying snake,” Morgana counters, watching Michael’s expression shift to a more pained one. “I don’t know which one of you to trust.”

“We've got a... _complicated_ history,” Michael starts. “Like, me and Franklin go back a couple of months, but me and Trevor go way back. Probably nearly as long as you've been alive,” he says, glancing over to Morgana to look her up and down. Sighing, he faces the road again. “I might've sold him out to the FIB during a bank robbery nine years ago, and faked my death in the process.”

“What?” Morgana nearly shrieks, turning to face Michael. “You did that? To your best friend?” The puzzle pieces fall into place. “He has a fucking tattoo on his shoulder dedicated to you!”

“Yeah yeah, save me the lecture, I've heard it a thousand fucking times from T alone. We were _reacquainted_ again after I did a job with Franklin a few months back, and the rest is history, really.”

Morgana calms herself a little; the men wouldn’t be talking if they still had unfinished business. “Like the Union Depository job, Merryweather losing its operational license, suspicious disappearance of Devin Weston, death of Steve Haines...” Morgana deadpans, ticking them off her fingers. “History or sheer dumb luck.”

Michael laughs, and Morgana relaxes a little more at the sound of it; Michael seems to be okay. “Sounds pretty impressive like that. You've done your research.”

“I'm a Pendragon, remember? Whether I like it or not, I know everything about who’s who in Los Santos,” Morgana says, watching mountains begin to rise around them and the desert begin to disappear. After only three days, Morgana is glad to see grass again. “Any other advice for me then? Anyone else to avoid? You’re sounding like my Da.”

Michael laughs to himself sombrely. “Shit, you’re only just older than my Tracey, and you’re out here, hanging around Trevor? Nah,” he says, shaking his head but not continuing on that train of thought. “He’s dangerous. He’s committed every crime, every sin you could think of. He’s killed people, fucked people over, _eaten_ people. Trevor Philips is _not_ a nice man.”

“You’re telling me this like I’m gonna go sleep with him,” Morgana says, rolling her eyes and resting her head on her hand, elbow braced against the car door. The ocean soon comes into view, beautiful and endless.

Michael doesn’t say anything for a couple of moments, and Morgana has the answer she needs. “Oh Jesus. Really? Me and Trevor? You’re having me on. Have you seen the state of him?”

“That’s the thing; I have,” Michael drawls. “He was fuckin’ his arch-enemy’s girlfriend behind his back, and you know Madrazo? His wife? Trevor kidnapped her, _kidnapped_ her and she _fell in love_ with him. A match made in Stockholm syndrome heaven. Said he was a tortured soul or some bullshit like that.” Morgana’s met Martin Madrazo, and she can’t imagine him being too pleased about that. “He’ll try it on with anyone, he’s that desperate for attention, including twenty-four year olds half his age. He mentioned your tits about a thousand times when he called me last night.”

Morgana rolls her eyes and unconsciously crosses her arms, the car’s interior beginning to flicker with light as they drive through a long tunnel. Did Trevor truly think she was attractive, or could he not see past her breasts or her money, even though he’d said he wasn’t interested in the latter? She turns this over in her head a couple of times before Michael pulls off the highway and into the parking lot of Hookies, Trevor’s truck swinging in behind them a couple of seconds later.

“This crazy-ass motherfucker tried to kill me!” Franklin says as they all exit their respective vehicles. “Man I ain't ever riding with you again, homie.”

Trevor puts an arm around his shoulders. “And like I said, it isn't an adventure unless you get at least a full five seconds of airtime!”

Franklin looks like he's going to be sick, so Michael intervenes. “C’mon, we've wasted enough time already. I'll get them to set us up with a secluded table.”

They follow Michael across the parking lot, Morgana sneaking glances at Trevor when she thinks he's not looking. She's used to people being attracted to her figure or her looks, but she hopes that maybe one day someone would be attracted to her mind or her spirit instead.

The host greets Michael warmly, before immediately showing them to a booth tucked away at one end of the restaurant, without Michael even having to give explicit instructions to do so. A waitress appears with a jug of water and four glasses, setting them down. Michael hands the host a fifty dollar bill, before they're left in peace.

“So,” Michael begins, filling up his glass with water. “Pendragon. How we gonna do this?”

Morgana glances around the group, noting their eyes all trained on her. She can’t remember the last time people were waiting to hear what she wanted to say, and weren’t just looking at her for what she was (or wasn’t) wearing. “Well. It’s got to not look like an inside job.”

“That’s not much of an ask,” Michael says. “We’re not exactly subtle.”

“Unless you call bustin’ into the FIB building subtle, in which case we’re just fine,” Franklin adds, crossing his arms.

“So,” Morgana continues, “the best way for it to not look like an inside job is being noisy, loud, and public. Guns blazing, lots of people dying kind of thing.”

“And where are you going to be during all this?” Trevor interjects, having been unusually quiet. His hands are locked together on the table, brow furrowed.

“With you lot, of course,” Morgana says, shrugging. Her t-shirt rides down her shoulder with the movement, and she tugs it back up again. “I want to see the light fade from Arthur’s eyes myself.”

Franklin sits back in his seat. “Dude, that’s cold.”

“Shit,” Michael drawls at the same time.

Trevor just smiles, and Morgana’s stomach drops at the sight of it.

“You’re still gonna need an alibi for not being killed along with the others,” Michael says, gaining Morgana’s attention once more. “We could say Trevor took you hostage. It’s hardly a reach, is it T?”

“Woah, woah, hold on now,” Trevor says, holding his hands up. “Firstly, Patricia was not a hostage, she was a _guest_ and she enjoyed her time with me.” Trevor pauses for a moment, before continuing. “Secondly. Who said we’re going to drag my name through the mud? We just gonna go up to the press like, _so_ , by the way, it was _definitely_ Trevor Philips who decided to take on Pendragon? Because thanks a fucking lot, _snake_.”

“Chill the fuck out you two, alright?” Franklin says before Michael manages to open his mouth to retaliate. “Jesus. We ain’t gotta say it’s Trevor, or any of us. Pendragon’s known, alright? They’re gonna have enemies everywhere, anyone could want to take them out.”

Morgana’s voice is uncharacteristically small when she speaks. “But why not me? Why would I be so special as to either not be killed, or not be there?”

“It might be suspicious if you were _luckily_ out of Los Santos at the same time as the other Pendragons died,” Michael says, and Morgana can’t help but feel a thrill in her chest at that, the thought of her tormentors meeting their sorry ends. “So maybe you’re _there_ ,” Michael says, using air quotations. “And we kidnap you, hypothetically, while you’re actually in real time with us and shooting people, doing all your nasty shit.”

Morgana makes a noise of mortification, before Trevor interrupts loudly. “I got it!” A couple of the other patrons of the diner look towards their table, before Trevor lowers his voice. “Two squads.”

“What?” Morgana asks, looking at Franklin and Michael to find them both just as confused as she is.

Trevor sighs in frustration. “Two squads, teams, whatever. One team supposedly goes into the Pendragon HQ, takes out the dickheads, kidnaps the princess. Second team goes to the other location, rescues the princess, everyone’s happy, Morgana can reclaim Pendragon as her own.”

“I’m not a princess,” Morgana huffs, crossing her arms. She’s ignored.

“And you’re gonna be her knight in shining armour?” Michael asks Trevor. “You? Gimme a break.”

“It’s a good idea,” Morgana says, looking between the three of them. “Unless anyone’s got anything better.”

Michael pulls his phone out of his pocket, beginning to tap away at the screen. “Phones at the table are banned, _Mikey_ ,” Trevor snarks, before Michael places the phone in the middle of the table, a call to someone called Lester connecting.

“For the last time, Michael, I’m not hacking into Tracey’s web history,” the voice at the end of the line sneers in greeting, Michael turning the speaker down so only those sat at the table can hear it.

“Lester, look. This is something different,” he says, turning red in the face. “I’ve got T and F with me. We’re planning something,” Michael explains.

Silence. Morgana looks at Michael, and then Trevor. “Oh, no,” Lester says eventually. “I-- I thought you were finished.”

“Yeah, well, so did we,” Trevor says languidly. “We’re thinking of taking on Pendragon.”

A nervous laugh. “Pendragon? Are you high?” Lester squeaks. Morgana can hear a keyboard clacking in the background. “Why, exactly?”

“Well, they sent that Irish prick Merlin out to spy on me,” Trevor says. Morgana winces, and Trevor mouths _sorry_ to her, which she wasn’t expecting. “Anyway, yeah, we wanna take out Arthur and the other guy as well.”

Franklin mimes face palming himself, and he and Trevor begin to silently bicker across the table. Michael shoves at both of their shoulders at once. “You mean Uther? Uther Pendragon?” Lester asks from the phone. “Are you not taking out the girl too? The model one with the big boobies.”

“For fuck’s sake, can everyone stop referring to my tits instead of my name? Jesus,” Morgana says finally, unable to stay silent any longer.

The phone goes quiet, and Michael taps the screen to make sure the call is still connected. “Michael?” Lester asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Michael says, his tone slightly tired.

“Please tell me I didn’t just hear Morgana Pendragon’s voice,” Lester says, and Morgana bites her lip nervously. “Trevor, what have you done?”

“Lester, c’mon, why do you always assume it’s _me_ when _bad_ things happen?” Trevor whines. “I’m a good person!”

“Yeah, and Hitler was a _really_ nice guy,” Lester shoots back at him.

“It was me, actually, I asked T for his help,” Morgana pipes up. “I want them taken out. I want to be in charge.”

Lester pauses for a moment. “Okay, then. Franklin? Michael? You’re helping them in this... well, it’s a deathwish really.”

“We’re used to those by now, man,” Franklin says, his smirk to Michael being returned.

“Alright. Give me a few days to do some research. Morgana... boy, I can’t believe you’re _the_ Morgana Pendragon. I still have your first Anna Rex shoot on my wall.”

Morgana pales, looking to Trevor. “I was _sixteen_ ,” she hisses, and Trevor muffles his laughter in the crook of his elbow, it eventually turning into a coughing fit as Lester continues to talk.

“I’ll need you to come visit me at some point, so I can get all the information from you,” Lester says. “In the meantime, don’t make it too obvious that you’re planning something. Keep on good terms with Arthur and Uther, and don’t do anything brash... although if you’re hanging around with Trevor... oh Lord,” Lester says, and Morgana raises her eyebrows. “I’ll send you a text with all the details in it.”

“You don’t have my num--”

Morgana’s phone beeps loudly in her pocket before she even finishes her sentence.

“I told ya he was creepy,” Trevor grins. “He’s called Lester the Molester for a reason.”

“I can send you straight back to prison with the push of a button, Trevor. Don’t tempt me,” Lester says from the phone.

“Alright, calm down,” Michael says, shooting a look at Trevor. “Lester, try not to weird people out too much, okay? We’ll be in touch.” Michael hangs up the phone, looking between the three of them. “What now?”

Morgana has her phone out, to no snide comment from Trevor, she realises. “Lester wants me to go to him on Monday,” she reads from her texts. She opens the e-mail app, to find a message with the subject of _Urgent!!! Party!!_ at the top of her inbox. “Oh, no.”

“Did Lester send you some nudes or something? I’ll fuck him up, I swear,” Trevor says, craning his neck to try to look at the screen of Morgana’s phone.

“No, it’s worse,” Morgana says, before she starts reading. “Hi Morgana!” she says, mimicking her agent Elena’s voice. “Sorry to hear that you’ve lost your voice. Hope you get better soon.” Morgana pauses to look between the three of them with raised eyebrows. “Arthur said you heard our conversation earlier, but here’s the deets anyway. I got you a ticket and your usual plus one to the Maze Bank masquerade ball this Friday at the Gentry. Sponsored by Sessanta Nove so wear one of their gowns if you can. Obvs you need a mask!” Morgana rolls her eyes at this. “Be there at 7pm sharp. Love you!”

“And in English, that is?” Franklin asks.

Morgana sighs. “It’s a trap, I think. Arthur must’ve spoken to my agent, the little snake, and she’s arranged for me to go to a party he’s going to be at. God, I fucking hate him,” she says, putting her head in her hands and letting her fingernails dig into her scalp.

“Alright then, don’t go,” Michael says, and Morgana looks up to find him shrugging. “I don’t see what the deal is.”

“He won’t _stop_. If I don’t go, he’ll comb every square inch of this fucking state until he finds me. He’s a lunatic, a cold-blooded fucking rodent, God!” Morgana says, slamming her fists against the table. “I can’t wait to fucking kill him.”

“Christ, calm the fuck down,” Michael says, looking over their booth to make sure no one in the diner is paying too much attention. “We’ll sort it out, alright? We can’t change anything about this party without it being suspicious, though, I doubt you cancel events that often. We can...” he pauses for a moment. “Franklin, how do you feel about being a bodyguard for the night?”

“Shit man, only if you’re my partner,” Franklin replies, and they bump fists over the table, smiling.

“Well that’s great, but what am I doing then? She can’t have three bodyguards, that’s just overkill,” Trevor says. Michael, Franklin, and Morgana stare at him for a beat. “Haha, no. You’re fucking kidding.”

“Michael can’t be my plus one, he’s too well known; Arthur will recognise him instantly if I had to talk to him, and then there’s too many questions to answer,” Morgana says, waving a hand at him. “And Franklin?” Morgana puts a hand on Franklin’s shoulder. “You’re gas, honestly, but I don’t need the magazines giving me any more attention than usual, and you’re so sweet they might just think you’re my boyfriend.”

“Shit, thanks,” Franklin smiles to himself, before he looks to Morgana. “Wait, what the fuck is gas?”

Morgana smiles despite herself. “It means funny, sorry. They slip out every now and then.”

“That’s still great and _lovely_ ,” Trevor drawls, “but why the _fuck_ do I have to be the plus one?” The group turns their attention to him. “That’s like throwing me to a pack of fucking lions.”

“It makes sense, to be fair,” Michael says, raising a hand when Trevor is about to interrupt him. “Arthur’s never met you, right? He seems like the kinda guy who distances himself from his work. You can gain some intelligence, and he’ll never even guess it’s you, if you’re actually well dressed for once.”

“Fuck you,” Trevor says weakly. “But why _me_?” he asks, and Morgana smiles, realising he’s finally admitting defeat.

“Hey, you’re the one who agreed to help her in the first place, dawg,” Franklin says, Michael nodding.

Trevor sighs, looking at Morgana darkly. “Fine. But you _owe_ me, Morgs.” Morgana blushes at the nickname, one she’s often heard but she finds that she likes the way Trevor says it, like it’s the first time she’s heard it at all. The implication behind what she owes him doesn’t disgust her, which confuses her a little.

“Alright,” Michael says, putting his phone away again from where it had sat on the table. “If it ain’t urgent, Morgana, we’ll wait ‘til Lester comes up with something to take out Arthur. Once you’ve seen him, get T to let me know and then you can swing by and we’ll sort something out. It’ll do him good to get out of the desert,” he says, pointing at Trevor as he stands.

“It’d do _you_ good to have a sarcasm lobotomy... or maybe just a lobotomy,” Trevor sneers, the three of them following Michael out of the diner, to the bemused glances of onlookers.

“Be _nice_ ,” Morgana hisses, nudging at Trevor with her elbow. “I really appreciate what you’re doing, you two,” she says to Michael and Franklin when they stand in the parking lot again, between the Tailgater and the badly-parked Bodhi. “I mean, the fact that you’ll help out a complete stranger...” Morgana says, scratching the back of her neck nervously.

“Yeah, yeah, save the thanks until we actually do the job,” Michael says, but he’s smiling. “We’ll be there Friday night, but we shouldn’t see you unless there’s serious trouble.”

Franklin bumps fists with Morgana, and then she shakes Michael’s hand, both of them walking to their respective sides of the Tailgater. “Look after yourself,” Franklin says, “Trevor’s a fuckin’ maniac.”

“And remember what I told you!” Michael calls as he gets into the car.

Morgana stands silently next to Trevor as Michael and Franklin pull away, cutting across traffic to reach the southbound side of the highway.

“What did he tell you?” Trevor asks. Morgana looks at him, at the set of his mouth, the crease between his eyes. He sounds sad.

“What I presume is his usual ‘Trevor’s weird’ speech, don’t worry about it,” she jokes. “Plus he explained why he’s a lying snake.”

Trevor perks up, eyes becoming bright. “Well, you should _never_ forget why people betray you,” Trevor says, getting into his truck. “Hop in, can’t be leaving a supermodel out here in the middle of biker county, can I?”

“Biker county?” Morgana asks, climbing into the passenger side of the truck. She reaches for a seatbelt, to find it doesn’t exist.

“The Lost MC,” Trevor says. The engine finally starts after it turns over uselessly a couple of times. He looks over his shoulder as he reverses in the lot quickly, pointing them towards the road. Morgana suddenly wishes she was wearing a seatbelt as he guns it onto the highway, narrowly missing colliding with a huge truck. “I, er, had a disagreement with the guy in charge, kinda killed him, kinda killed the rest of the gang. They used to hang out at Hookies a lot, still turn up every now and then if I don’t come back and show them who’s boss.”

Morgana turns to him, looking at Trevor as he concentrates on the road. They enter the tunnel under the military base once more, the lights illuminating Trevor’s face in profile, making him almost look like a monster. “ _Kind of_ killed him?” Morgana asks in a higher pitch than she would’ve liked. “You either did or you--” The penny drops. “Oh, no, it was his girlfriend you were fucking, wasn’t it?”

Trevor laughs. “There’s plenty of Uncle T to go around, sweetheart,” he says as they emerge from the tunnel, the ghoulish effect the lights had now completely gone.

“Michael said... he warned me off you, really. I mean, he explained the snake thing, but most of it was like the talk I had with my Da when I was eleven, telling me to stay away from boys,” Morgana says, suddenly overcome with a wish for her father, her _real_ father, to still be alive, so he could listen to all her worries and make them go away.

“Joke’s on him,” Trevor says, swinging a left onto Route 68. “I haven’t got a single fuckin’ chance with you. Bet you’ve got a harem of five guys back in Vinewood, and you choose a flavour of the week _every_ time. Wonder if they’re missing you,” Trevor muses to himself, and Morgana rolls her eyes. She didn’t miss the hint of self-loathing when Trevor said he didn’t have a chance, though, but her head is too busy with thoughts of Arthur’s imminent death to even try to decipher it.

“I don’t have a fucking _harem_ , Christ,” Morgana says, having to shout over the wind rushing past the truck. “I have to sleep with enough guys as it is, I don’t want to do it in my free time as well.”

Trevor suddenly brakes hard as he pulls out to overtake a truck, seeing a car come in the opposite direction. He swerves right, onto the sand to undertake instead, pulling out in front of the truck at a slower speed than before. “So what, you don’t sleep with people, at all?”

Morgana takes a second to register the question as the truck driver blasts his horn. She looks down at her hands, wrung together in her lap. “No,” she admits, feeling as if she’s exposing the darkest parts of her existence to a man whom she barely knows. But she glances up at Trevor, and when he tears his eyes away from the road for a moment, he looks like he really cares. “It’s not fun, it never has been. I don’t think I’ve done it for fun since I left Dublin.”

“What a lucky fellow he was,” Trevor says lowly, sarcastically, and Morgana falls silent, staring dead ahead. “Oh c’mon, you would’ve been what, fifteen? Something like that?” Trevor asks, guessing her age at the time correctly. “It can’t have been that bad.”

Morgana feels herself clamming up, something that doesn’t happen to her often. “Well, not for me. I... you’re not going to like the answer,” she says quietly, just being heard over the roar of the engine. Trevor slows down as they enter Sandy Shores.

“How could I not like the--” Trevor pauses mid-sentence. “Merlin? That little toe-rag?”

“Fuck you,” Morgana snaps as Trevor pulls up in front of his trailer. “He used to be _nice_ , goddamn it. He was my only fucking friend, the only person I had since I was about twelve. He didn’t give a fuck that my parents were bombing his people, he just saw me as _me_ , alright?” Morgana takes a moment to suck a breath in, realising that her hands are shaking. “He was the only fucking person I had, and _you_ fucked him up.”

Trevor points at himself innocently. “Me? Are you telling me I _forced_ a fucking crack pipe into his mouth? Maybe your brother shouldn’t have sent him out to spy on me in the first place, and should’ve just kept his nose out of my goddamn business.”

“He is _not_ my brother,” Morgana seethes, pointing a finger in Trevor’s face. Trevor snaps his teeth as if he’s going to bite it off, and Morgana retracts it slightly. “Refer to him as such again and I’ll fucking kill you as well, you got it?”

Trevor stares at her for a moment, mouth set in a hard line, before he sits back in his seat again. “You’re fucked up, and I _like_ it!” he growls, before getting out of the car, leaving Morgana to wonder just what the fuck she’s gotten herself into.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call gives Morgana more than she bargained for...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler chapter so we can learn more about Morgana and Trevor. Sorry not sorry. Let me know if you're enjoying so far! <3

Morgana drives back to Los Santos that afternoon, her head a flurry of confused thoughts and her hands too tight on the steering wheel. She considers swapping her Carbonizzare for something a little more subtle, but that would involve jacking a car or heading to her apartment to pick up the keys for her Pendragon-owned Issi, both of which would attract either the police’s attention or Arthur’s.

Morgana can’t decide which would be worse.

The countryside begins to bleed back into the city again, and Morgana can’t find it within herself to say that she’s missed it at all. It’s noisy and smoggy, and almost immediately she longs for the dusty, hot expanse of desert she’d called home for the past few days. It’d felt much longer than that, though, and she knew as soon as she entered the city that she would be heading straight back out there.

She pulls off the highway into Mirror Park, with no intention of heading into the heart of the city and having her distinctive car spotted by one of Arthur’s many moles. Parking and killing the engine outside a random house down the street, she looks up the road to her own little home, painted sunshine yellow.

The neighbourhood is quiet as she gets out of the car, the sun beginning to set over the rooftops to the west as she walks down the sidewalk, relishing the cooler air of the city on her face. Morgana pulls her hair tighter in its ponytail, pushing her aviators up her nose as she spins the ring of her car keys on her finger.

Her Mirror Park home is an escape from the life that the Pendragons have built and controlled for her. They don’t know it exists, or, if Arthur has his suspicions that she owns an alternative property to her downtown apartment, he hasn’t yet found its location. The key slides into the lock on Morgana’s second attempt, and the door then opens with a little encouragement.

It’s a stark contrast from her high-end apartment, with its red and white colour scheme and brightly lit, open plan spaces. Morgana throws her keys onto the coffee table as she enters, shutting the door behind her and flicking on a lamp in the corner, illuminating the dingy living room.

Piles of books litter the place, divided into subjects and then into whether or not Morgana has had the time to read them. A brightly coloured patchwork throw hangs over the back of the little two-seater sofa, something she’d bought in Simmet Alley last year. Morgana sits down on the sofa, pulling the throw around her shoulders, kicking off her shoes. She knows she should check the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom, make sure Arthur hasn’t planted someone to kill her the moment she relaxes, but she can’t bring herself to stand up again, weary from the last few days and for what is still to come.

“Dress,” Morgana says to herself, her words not echoing in the quiet of her home unlike they would in her apartment. It comforts her a little. “I need a dress. Sessanta Nove. Trevor needs a suit. Oh, shit.”

She pulls her phone out of her handbag, the light illuminating her face as she scrolls to Trevor’s entry in her contacts. She’d saved it after he’d rang her earlier in the day, simply labelling it as ‘T’.

_What are your measurements?_

Morgana sends the text, standing up from the sofa with the throw still wrapped around her shoulders, walking through to the closet in her bedroom, no assassins in sight. Within moments, her phone buzzes again.

_5.5 inches hard, 4.5 around the base. I know it aint much but it does the job well x x_

“For fuck’s sake,” Morgana hisses, screwing her eyes shut to try and unsee that image. “God forbid I ask this guy for help to take over the business,” she mutters to herself, before furiously tapping out a reply.

_Eejit. I meant chest, height etc. I’m taking a wild guess that you don’t have a dinner jacket._

The reply is near instantaneous.

_a what? x_

Morgana rolls her eyes to herself.

_Never mind. I’ll come measure you tomorrow._

Throwing her phone on her bed, Morgana turns on the light in the bedroom, opening one of the closets to an array of dresses, the doors unable to close fully due to the amount of clothing inside. The more beautiful, most current ones are at her apartment in 3 Alta Street Tower, but Morgana isn’t against recycling a five-year old dress for just one evening. Red and gold sparkle at her, where the black blends into the shadows and the white glows in the darkness. She knows each of these dresses individually, can remember exactly when she wore every last one.

Morgana has three different Sessanta Nove dresses, dresses she’d been given in exchange for payment on numerous shoots. She’d meant to sell them, but they meant something to her; they were something that belonged to her and her alone, a rarity in Morgana’s life. The first is a sequined black number, the second is emerald satin, and the third is red lace, with a thigh high split and a flower pattern. Morgana pulls this dress out into the light of the bedroom, twisting it about on its hanger to survey it. It would be perfect, and she hangs it up over the edge of the closet door.

She’d never been to a masquerade ball before, though, and would have to go into the city to buy a mask, as well as sorting out a tuxedo and mask for Trevor. Morgana imagines it for a moment, Trevor stood right next to Arthur, the latter completely oblivious to the former’s presence. It makes her smile.

She picks up her phone from the bed, finding a text from Trevor.

_why not come over now? make sure you get nice and close for that inner leg measurement x_

Morgana laughs this time around, having expected something sexual in the very least. She doesn’t think there’s any real meaning behind it; a monster Trevor might be, but she doesn’t worry that he’ll pull her down a dark alleyway and take her against her will. She knows people in her life who would do that without a second thought, but she brushes those images aside.

_I’m in LS. I’ll be back tomorrow_.

Morgana tuckers her phone into the waistband of her leggings, heading through to the kitchen. The refrigerator is mostly bare, save for chicken pasta leftovers that Morgana had made on Sunday night. She counts the days back on her hands, cracking the lid on the box to give it a casual sniff. Satisfied, she throws it in the microwave; Trevor would be proud.

She’s leaning against the countertop, staring at the food turning slowly in the microwave, when her phone begins to buzz against her hip.

“Trevor?” Morgana asks with surprise in her tone as she answers the call.

“Why are you in LS? What’s happened?” Trevor asks frantically. “Is it because I called that prick your brother? Because I’m _sorry_.”

“Woah, Trevor, slow down,” she says, using her free hand to swipe a few stray hairs out of her face. “I’m not pissed off with you. I came back because I need to pick up some clothes, and I guess we’ll be getting ready here on Friday night for the ball, so I need to tidy and get stuff ready.”

Trevor sighs. “Thank God. I got worried something bad had happened,” he says, and Morgana smirks at the worry in his voice. The microwave pings. “I mean, you’re a badass bitch who could probably glare her way out of a situation, but, y’know, I worried. A little bit.”

Morgana cradles the phone in her shoulder, retrieving her steaming pasta from the microwave and dumping it onto a plate, getting a fork from a drawer. “Aw, are you missing me already?” she teases, sitting at the little one-seater table in her kitchen and starting to eat, having forgotten to have lunch earlier in the day. “Is that why you called?” she asks around a mouthful of pasta.

“No!” Trevor says too quickly. “I just... wanted to make sure you were safe. That’s all.”

“Bless,” Morgana drawls, and she can hear Trevor growl at the other end of the line. She laughs. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. I’ll drop in with my tailor and tell her to start working on a tux, then I can text her your measurements tomorrow afternoon. I need to buy us masks, too.”

“Hang on,” Trevor says. “Did you say we were getting ready at your place? As in, I don’t know, the apartment you said was _right_ next to Arthur’s?”

Morgana remembers telling Trevor that yesterday, that she, Merlin, and Arthur all used to have apartments on the same floor of their tower block, until Merlin returned broken from the desert and Arthur had to look after him himself. “No, you eejit.” She says the word easily, before she realises that she used to call Merlin that all the time when they were back in Dublin.

“Eejit?” Trevor asks cautiously.

“Idiot,” Morgana replies.

“Hey, name calling ain’t _nice_ ,” Trevor growls down the phone. Morgana can’t work out if he means it or not.

“I’m telling you what it means! Anyway, you’ll be coming here. I’m at my house in Mirror Park, it’s not monitored. You can have a bath--”

“A _what?!_ ”

“--get dressed in your tux, and we can get half-cut before we go so it’s not as horrible as it’s going to be.” The joking tone of Morgana’s voice wears out by the end of the sentence, and she just sounds a little sad. She buries that thought and shovels more pasta into her mouth.

“Half-cut? I swear you talk a different fucking language,” Trevor says. “And are you eating while you’re talking to me? I thought rich princesses were taught _manners_.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Morgana says, rolling her eyes to herself. She puts her phone on speaker and sets it down on the table. “It means half-drunk, and there, now you can’t hear me chewing. Thought you’d be the kind of guy to get a kick from that, but there you go.”

Trevor laughs lowly, igniting something in Morgana’s gut. “I bet you’ve had some _really_ creepy guys ask for weird shit over the years.”

“Yeah, well,” Morgana says, sitting back in her chair, waving her fork about in the air as she talks. “Arthur’s goons do their best to keep the crazies away at events, but that doesn’t stop them on Bleeter or Snapmatic. I’ve had someone Bleet me asking if they could do a wax mould of my vagina.”

Trevor chokes on the other end of the line, coughing a few times. Morgana blinks, realising that she just said that out loud. To Trevor. _Shit_. “Jesus. Warn a man next time, will ya?” he wheezes, managing to compose himself. “Well? Did you say yes?”

“Fuck you,” Morgana laughs, spearing the last bit of pasta with her fork and eating it. She sets the cutlery down on her plate.

Trevor hums, then says something Morgana can’t quite work out. She ignores it, picking up the phone and heading through to the lounge. “I can hear you moving,” Trevor says as she puts down the phone on the coffee table, before she heads into her bedroom. “Hello?” she hears him call, and she shakes her head to herself, rifling through her make-up drawer. She has a funny feeling, perhaps that pseudo-psychic ability that bleeds into her dreams, that Trevor won’t hang up on her. She finds the polish remover, cotton pads, and black nail polish she was looking for, before she returns to the lounge, grabbing the box of tissues from her nightstand on the way.

“I’m here, Christ,” she says as she sits down on the sofa, pulling the coffee table closer so she can put one foot up on it. “I think you have some attachment issues,” she says breezily, unscrewing the top of the nail polish and beginning to paint her big toe.

Trevor makes a noise of frustration over the line. “When you go through eight different dads, your mom doesn’t love you enough, and your best friend fakes his death to get away from you, you kinda start to get a bit _clingy_.”

“Hey, you’re talking to the orphan,” Morgana says lightly. It’s a new feeling, to be this open about her history with someone. It’s dangerous, too. “Shouldn’t you be out getting high, or making other people get high, or something?” It’s dark outside, and Morgana should probably close her curtains, just in case. She dips the brush back in the polish and continues painting her toes.

“Meh, I can take a night off every now and then,” Trevor says. Morgana can imagine him shrugging his shoulders, perhaps sat on his sofa with a bottle of beer. She wonders for a fleeting moment if he ever gets lonely.

“So should I tell Ron tomorrow that you spent your whole evening talking to me?” Morgana teases. She knows that she’s flirting but she can’t help it, maybe it’s something to do with how Trevor knows all of his flaws and isn’t ashamed of them, the kind of person Morgana would like to be one day. Aside from the methamphetamine, perhaps.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” he says, but Morgana’s sure she can hear his smile. She switches to the other foot. “So what are you doing in your lonely little Mirror Park house? Trust you to move in with all the fucking hipsters.”

“I’m totally a hipster,” Morgana counters, voice thick with sarcasm. “I mean, being a supermodel slash villainess is _so_ mainstream.”

Trevor pauses for a moment. “Do you think of yourself as a villain? The baddie?”

The question catches Morgana off guard. “Do you?”

“Of you? Nah. Butter wouldn't melt with you,” Trevor says, and Morgana blushes, reminding herself that Trevor hasn’t seen her worst side yet. “About me? Yeah. But like the good guy villain. I don’t kill people for the fun of-- actually, that’s probably a lie. Is that a bad thing? Sometimes wanting someone to die, even if they haven’t done anything wrong to you?”

The room falls silent as Morgana thinks of Arthur and Uther, and then Lance, who’s always been polite to her, or Leon, who despite Arthur’s orders to hit her on occasion, he’s never actually followed through. She thinks of Elena, who’s done nothing but her job, and even Gwen, who’s still attracted to Arthur despite him hurting her over and _over_.

“No,” Morgana says quietly, realising she’s still holding the nail polish brush up in the air. “It’s not a bad thing.”

“Glad we’re on the same page, sweetheart,” Trevor says with all the sincerity he can muster. Morgana blinks, unfreezing herself, putting the brush down to remove her current red nail polish from her fingernails. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“About what I’m doing?” Morgana asks sweetly. “Girly stuff,” she drawls, teasing again. She smiles to herself, quickly finishing scrubbing at one set of nails to switch to the other hand.

“Like masturbating?” Trevor’s voice is suddenly much more interested. “Flicking the bean? Nasty. I _love_ it.”

Morgana rolls her eyes, re-soaking the cotton pad with polish remover. “I’m painting my nails, prick,” she says, “don’t you remember the part when I said I don’t get a kick out of sex anymore?”

“But that’s just so _tragic_! How can you not?” Trevor whines. Morgana can genuinely see Trevor struggling to believe that people don’t like sex, judging by his track record. “If sex doesn’t give you a thrill, what does?”

“Intimacy.” Morgana’s mouth curls around the world, her tone much deeper than it had been just seconds ago. “Being close to someone, knowing them inside out, knowing their flaws and liking them all the better for it.” Morgana pauses for a moment, screwing the lid back on her polish remover, waiting for Trevor to pipe up with some comment or the other. She looks at her bare, slightly stained nails before she tips her head back to rest against the sofa. “For me,” she says, pausing to swallow. Her throat is suddenly dry, and she wishes she was anything but stone cold sober right now. “It would be someone seeing past the tits, the money-- fuck, even someone seeing past the men I’ve killed, someone who could see everything that I love and hate about myself, y’know?”

Trevor doesn’t answer for a moment or two. “Trevor?” Morgana asks quietly. She reaches for the black nail polish, unscrewing the cap.

There’s a grunting sound from the other end of the line, and Morgana’s brow furrows. “Ah, sorry Princess, I was jerkin’ off.”

“Are you serious?” Morgana shrieks, glaring at her phone and nearly dropping the polish in the process. “I just... I just revealed my inner, most personal _fucking--_ ”

“Relax, sweetheart,” Trevor interrupts in a drawl that only further infuriates Morgana. “I was only jokin’. Shit, you need a lay or some _hand-holding_ or whatever the fuck will relax you a bit. All that stress ain’t good for you, y’know.”

Morgana fumes. She exhales slowly, calming herself down, before beginning to paint her nails. Trevor has made her furious a couple of times now, and each and every time, she finds that she can’t stay mad for long. “I _really_ fucking hate you sometimes.”

“Ahh,” Trevor says, and Morgana can hear his smug smile. She wants to slap it right off his face, in fact she vows to do so the very next day. “Only sometimes. My _obvious_ charm, good looks, and instant access to illegal guns and drugs are slowly working on you.”

Morgana’s sure she’s going to have a permanent headache if she keeps rolling her eyes at Trevor’s stupid comments. “Ugh,” she utters, before deciding to change the subject. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself, then? Seeing as I just poured my heart out to you like an eejit.”

“Well, I can tell you the whole story if ya like, cupcake,” Trevor says. Morgana raises her eyebrows at the endearment; it’s a new one.

“Sure, it’ll be good craic.” As soon as the words are out of Morgana’s mouth, she realises exactly what’s happening, her Irish slang returning to her as it does when she’s comfortable around someone. She bites her lip.

“Crack? I deal in meth, honey,” Trevor deadpans.

Morgana sighs. “Craic, as in C-R-A-I-C, it means gossip, or it’ll be interesting, fuck, just tell me a fucking story.”

Trevor laughs at the end of the line. “Fine, I hope you’re ready for a good one.” He clears his throat. “There was once a little boy called Trevor...”

Over the next hour, as Morgana finishes painting her nails black, washes her face, and crawls into bed, Trevor tells her his life story. From being kicked out of the Royal Canadian Air Force, to meeting Michael in North Yankton, to taking Los Santos by storm with Franklin, Trevor doesn’t stop talking at all, often making Morgana laugh and nearly making her cry as he described the days after Michael’s supposed death.

She falls asleep just after Trevor tells her about his return to North Yankton with Michael. At the other end of the line, Trevor can hear her even breathing, and whispers a quiet “good night, Princess,” before he ends the call.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana _really_ doesn't like being called Princess...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love this chapter :D I've included some links to the masks for illustrative purposes :) hope you enjoy! <3

Morgana wakes with a start the next morning, wondering why her phone is on the bed beside her before she remembers. Bleary eyed, she checks the call log, realising she'd spent nearly two hours talking to Trevor the night before. She doesn’t regret it, though; Morgana can’t regret things that made her happy at the time. She blinks as her dream suddenly comes back to her, those blurry images of the helicopter at the beach a little clearer now. Shaking it away, she gets up.

She showers quickly, yet still taking the time to appreciate the warmth and pressure of the water, something her motel in Sandy Shores had been severely lacking. After blow drying her hair, she dresses in some of her more extravagant clothes; it’d be worth being papped while on Portola Drive, giving Arthur a false trail to pursue. Morgana chooses a pretty summer dress, despite the fact that it’s autumn, pairing it with opaque tights and a pair of her favourite heels from Ponsonbys. She goes for a natural look with her make-up, knowing that it’ll be more than enough.

Morgana digs out an overnight bag and puts some clean clothes into it, mostly jeans and t-shirts, a few pairs of shorts. She packs her make-up bag too. Along with the clothes she bought in Harmony, she should be set for a while. Glancing in one of her drawers again, Morgana sees a red bikini near the back. She remembers the dream, and on a whim decides to pack it.

With a hastily scribbled list of things to do in the city, she picks up her handbag and her bag full of clean clothes, glancing around the lounge one last time. Everything is tidy in its normal place, and it’s only a couple of days until she’ll be back, but Morgana can’t help but feel a little sad to be leaving her home again.

She struts out of the door, locking it behind her before she makes her way to her car, parked just down the street. “Hello, darling,” she purrs as she brushes her fingertips along its flank, as always, unlocking it and climbing in quickly. The car comes to life under her touch, the engine roaring as soon as she gets in the driver’s seat. “I know, I missed you too.”

On the way into the city she stops for fuel, tutting to herself as she fills the car up, looking at the dust and mud coating the paintwork. While she knows it’ll be dirty again by sunset, she’ll have to put it through a car wash lest she be shunned from Vinewood for the rest of her life, or worse, arouse Arthur’s suspicions of her escaping the city over the last week. When she pays for her fuel, she picks up a yoghurt from the fridge and a pre-packed salad for lunch, her nose scrunching a little at the basic ingredients.

Car full of gas and shining as much as a matte black Carbonizzare can after a run through the car wash, Morgana takes a slow route to Portola Drive, the home of Los Santos’ high end fashion. The sun is already high in the bright blue sky, with only a thin layer of smog covering the city this morning. She turns on the radio and hums along to the tune, drumming her fingers on the wheel and finding herself smiling.

Pulling up behind a black and orange Adder, Morgana parks her car, putting her sunglasses on the top of her head before she gets out. Within two moments of locking her car, she hears her name being called.

“Morgana! Morgana, give us a smile!”

And Morgana does. She waves to the paparazzo, a spotty boy whose moped is parked at an angle and whose camera has a lens much longer than necessary. Morgana wonders if he’s compensating for something. “What are you up to today, Morgana?” he half-asks, half-yells, as Morgana continues to pose for a few happy shots. She smoothes down her skirt, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Just some shopping,” she offers.

“Are you going to the Maze Bank masquerade ball this weekend? I can’t wait to see your dress!”

Morgana grins like a Cheshire cat. “I’ll be there. I’m buying my mask today,” she says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder towards Sessanta Nove. “Is that enough?”

“That’s awesome, thanks so much for your time!” the boy says, jogging back towards his moped. She’s sure they’ll be all over Bleeter by the end of the morning, so without further ado she heads into the dark interior of Sessanta Nove.

The young girl manning the cash register does a double take as Morgana strides through the door, browsing a dress or two before she approaches the desk. “I want to see Amélie,” Morgana says, and the girl flees to the back.

“ _Morgan_ ,” a shrill voice coos, and Morgana smiles. “My _chérie_ , it’s so good to see you,” an older woman says as she appears from the back of the shop. She touches Morgana’s face gently, craning her head to delicately kiss the air each side of her cheeks. “You haven’t seen me in a while, no?”

“I got busy,” Morgana says, breaking eye-contact with the tiny French woman. She doesn’t want to admit that she prefers Didier Sachs AW13 collection, not to this eccentric lady who’s been tailoring things for her for almost a decade now. “Could you do me a favour? It’s quite short notice.”

“Of course, anything for you, my sweet dove,” Amélie says, letting go of Morgana’s face. “What do you need? A new dress perhaps?”

Morgana clears her throat lightly. “No, I’m, um...” She glances at the young girl behind the desk. Amélie waves a hand and the girl disappears into the back again, leaving them alone in the little boutique. “I’m taking a friend to the Maze Bank masquerade on Friday, and he doesn’t have a dinner jacket.”

Amélie smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes somehow only adding to the genuineness of it. “I can do that for you. Do you have his measurements?”

Morgana has a flashback to Trevor’s idea of _measurements_ , and she shudders a little. “Not yet. I can get them to you this afternoon though. Do you trust me to measure him myself?” Morgana asks, a playful lilt to her voice.

Amélie touches Morgana’s arm. “Darling. No one in Los Santos can measure a man as well as I can, but I am _sure_ that you are the second best,” she says with a wink. “Now,” she says over her shoulder as she goes back to the desk. “I’ll find you my e-mail address, and you can have a look for a jacket you like. You need masks, too?”

“Yes,” Morgana asks, walking to the fixture of dinner jackets, exquisitely displayed by mannequins. “Mine can be very skimpy, you know? People are going to know it’s me just by the clothes I’m wearing.”

“Not a bad thing,” Amélie says from the other end of the shop.

“No, but it is for my guest. He needs a mask that’ll cover most of his face. I don’t want him... uh, getting recognised by the press.”

“Of course,” Amélie counters, and Morgana wonders if she’s imagining the knowing tone in the other woman’s voice. “Is he important to you?”

“What?” Morgana asks, whipping around to face the seamstress. “No, I mean, yes, I... you’re mean to me,” she settles on eventually, pouting at the older woman, the closest thing to a mother she’s had in a decade.

Amélie laughs. “I have the perfect thing. Wait one moment.”

Morgana settles on a plain dinner jacket during Amélie’s absence, something that costs more than a normal person would earn in a year. She imagines Trevor wearing the outfit, and her gut churns; with worry or anticipation, she can’t tell. She walks over to the desk just as Amélie reappears with two masks.

“[This one](https://img1.etsystatic.com/026/0/9105221/il_340x270.606397243_dda1.jpg),” she says, gesturing to a simple black lace mask, “is yours. It’s so simple, you see? Your eyes will be even more beautiful than they usually are.” Morgana giggles a little at the compliment. “And [this one](https://img1.etsystatic.com/014/0/5764550/il_fullxfull.423834107_16od.jpg), this one is for your friend.”

Morgana touches the black beading, tracing it from the plumage at the top of the mask all the way down to the point of the beak. The eyes of the mask are rimmed with the faintest of red beading, which would match her dress. The mask would disguise Trevor completely, only revealing his eyes or his jawline, both of which Morgana is sure Arthur isn’t familiar with. “They’re beautiful,” she says quietly, fingers still playing with the mask.

Amélie slides it out of her reach gently. “I can keep these here for you, and I can deliver them to your apartment on Friday morning if you wish?”

Morgana panics for a split second. “No, that’s okay, I’ll pick them up myself on Friday.” She turns to point at the suit she wants. “Third mannequin from the window, that suit, please. I’ll get you proper measurements this afternoon, but he’s about six foot one. It doesn’t have to be perfect but--”

Amélie gasps, putting a hand on her heart. “Morgan!” she admonishes. “You hurt me! You think I would give you anything but perfection?” Amélie huffs, putting the masks in a box and giving Morgana a slip of paper with an e-mail address scrawled on it. “By five, please, I am a very busy woman.”

Morgana smiles to herself. “One last thing!” she says as Amélie is about to disappear in a dramatic exit. “He needs some shoes to go with it. I don’t know his shoe size, though.”

Amélie raises an eyebrow. “This man doesn’t have shoes for a suit, and you don’t know his shoe size? My, Morgan, what a man you’re associating yourself with,” Amélie says, winking again. Morgana feels herself going bright red. “You couldn’t estimate his shoe size from his _other_ measurements, could you?”

Morgana can feel the tips of her ears burning as her mouth pops open. “I-- Amélie! You witch,” Morgana says as the older woman laughs. “I’ll see you Friday,” she says quickly, before turning on her heel and near enough bolting from the store, metaphorical tail between her legs. Thankfully there are no paparazzi around to witness her shock turn into laughter, Morgana giggling at the sheer lunacy of the situation she finds herself in.

She unlocks her car, quickly climbing into the driver’s seat and putting her keys in the ignition.

“Next stop, Sandy Shores,” she says to herself, a grin spreading across her face as she revs the engine and pulls out into the street.

*

The sun is high in the sky as Morgana drives into Sandy Shores once more, not bothering to go to the motel first to dump her clothes. Instead, she pulls up outside Trevor’s trailer.

Before she can even get her handbag out of the passenger side, the door to Trevor’s trailer swings open. “Oh, good, you’re still alive.”

Morgana smiles at the voice, before trying to wipe the expression off her face as she looks up to see Trevor standing on his porch. “I told you you’d miss me.”

Trevor throws his hands up in the air. “Whatever,” he says, “let’s do this measurement thing. I know you can’t wait to get your hands all over this body,” he says, running his hands down his torso and moving his hips from side to side. Morgana dramatically covers her face with her hands, peeking through her fingers at Trevor.

“Pig,” she says, unable to stop herself from giggling. It doesn’t make any sense; the only reason why she knows Trevor is because they’re going to kill Arthur together, but when she’s around him, she forgets about all of her worries as if they’ve just floated away.

Trevor snorts to accentuate Morgana’s point, before turning and going back inside his trailer. Morgana locks her car before following him, taking in the trash strewn across his front yard and the Bodhi nearly crashed into the chain link fence. It feels like home, in an odd sort of way.

Trevor’s trailer hasn’t changed since Monday, when she first drove out and demanded that Trevor worked with her. Morgana knows she’d been a bit harsh, and perhaps tipping a bottle of shitty beer over Trevor’s head hadn’t been the best of ways to deal with him, but they were off to a good start, weren’t they?

“So do I strip now, or after you’ve started touching my junk?”

Morgana revises her last thought.

“I’m not touching your fucking dick,” Morgana says, rolling her eyes. Rifling around in her handbag, she pulls out a tape-measure. “Although...” she says, looking Trevor’s outfit up and down. “You might have to take your sweatpants off. I won’t be able to get a correct-- oh, would you stop looking at me like that?”

“What?” Trevor asks, still leering at Morgana. “Just because you wanna see what I’m packing. Look, see?” Trevor pulls his sweatpants down, Morgana’s eyes instinctively going to the noticeable bulge in his underwear before she glances away quickly. She sees that there’s tattoos on his legs, too. Straightening up again, Trevor puts his hands on his hips. “It ain’t much but it gets the job done, I can take ya for a test run if you like.”

“No, thank you,” Morgana says as politely as she can. She pulls her phone out of her handbag, opening the notes app and handing it to Trevor. She sets her handbag down on the sofa. “Can you put down which part of the body I’ll measure, and what the measurement is as I do it?”

“Sure,” Trevor says, tapping about on her phone. Morgana immediately regrets her decision. “Dick size, thirteen inches,” he reads slowly, and Morgana doesn’t doubt for a moment that Trevor has actually typed that out.

“You’ve already text me that one, _remember_ ,” Morgana deadpans. “You can pull them up if you want,” she says, glancing briefly at his sweatpants around his ankles. “I’m starting with your neck.” She fiddles with the tape measure nervously, watching Trevor concentrate on typing one handed.

“They’re fine,” Trevor says, shrugging his shoulders and spreading his arms wide. “I know you’re enjoying the view.”

Morgana sighs, stepping towards Trevor, the two of them stood in the middle of his lounge-come-kitchen. She holds the tape taut between her hands, invading Trevor’s personal space to loop it around his neck. He smells like he’s showered for once, and his white t-shirt is resembling white more than brown, so she considers that progress.

“I’ll have to put my finger against your neck, for the collar size,” Morgana says, adjusting the tape to get the correct measurement.”

“Sweetcheeks, you don’t need to make excuses for touching me. I got a lot to go around,” Trevor says, and Morgana can feel him speaking through her finger pressed to his warm skin. She pulls it away as if she’s been shocked the moment she has the measurement.

“Sixteen point five for your neck. Write that down,” Morgana says, looking at the crude _CUT HERE_ tattoo. It had been the first thing she’d really noticed about Trevor, the welcome advertisement for someone to decapitate him. “What’s the craic with this?” she asks quietly, gesturing to the tattoo, forgetting about the slip up in her lexicon for the moment.

“Actually _not_ a prison tatt, despite the shitty ink,” Trevor says, and the knowledge about the prison sentence doesn’t shock her; Trevor had explained all of his past discrepancies in the phone call the night before. “I got it at the same time I got the tattoo for Mikey,” he continues, pointing to his shoulder where the memorial tattoo sits. “Paid a bit more for that one though. The ‘cut here’... that was kind of a fuck you to the world I guess; I’d lost my best friend, y’know? What was left? Fuckin’ nothing, that’s what. So I thought, _fuck it_ , and I got it. Don’t regret it. Never regretted anything.”

Morgana hums quietly, taking in Trevor’s poignant words. “Chest,” she says softly, and Trevor lifts his arms up. Morgana loops the tape around his chest, having to reach around him in a kind of half-hug to reach the other end of it. She feels rather than sees Trevor’s eyes on her cleavage at this angle. Bringing the tape round across the front of Trevor’s chest, she realises two things: firstly, how close she is, and secondly, quite how muscular he is, despite his age. “Arms down,” she instructs. “Don’t tense up.”

“Well, this is cozy,” Trevor drawls after a couple moments of silence. Morgana doesn’t look at his face.

“Forty-two,” Morgana says quickly, Trevor raising his arm to see the screen of Morgana’s phone as he types. She slides the tape down around his waist. “Where’s your belly button?”

“That the kind of thing that gets you going?” Trevor asks, before pointing with his free hand. Morgana makes sure the tape is above it.

“Is literally every thought that goes through your head a sexual one?” she asks, exasperated. “Thirty-five.”

“It is when you’re around,” Trevor says lowly, as Morgana puts the tape around his hips. She’s still standing in his personal space, and if she looked up right now, her face would be directly level with hers, thanks to her high heels.

Morgana does a little intake of breath, then, trying to keep her hands steady as she reads out that measurement. She could’ve guessed days ago that Trevor was attracted to her - aren’t most men? - but to hear him say it is a completely different story. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to wear his heart on his sleeve, not anymore.

She steps to his side a little bit to take the measurement for the seat of his bum, so that her knuckles aren’t brushing against his crotch while she does so. The tape, however, does, and Trevor makes a half-hearted whine at it.

“How do you know how to do all this?” Trevor asks as Morgana releases the tape, taking a measurement for the length of his shirt. “I mean, most of them guys you _associate_ with probably actually know what a tuxedo looks like.”

Morgana laughs at that, walking around Trevor to take a measurement over the top of his shoulders. “Did you write that last one down?” she asks instead.

“ _Yes_ ,” Trevor sighs. “I’m not just sat here scrolling through your selfies, y’know,” he says over his shoulder, and Morgana has to put her hands on him to make him relax for the measurement. He visibly sags a little under her calming touch.

“Don’t go through my pictures,” she warns, knowing that her words are the equivalent of a red flag to a bull. “And I see a lot of it on shoots, if they’re doing last minute alterations or things like that. Arthur always gets his custom made too, and--”

Morgana freezes, the tape pinned by her hands across Trevor’s back. He turns his head over his shoulder. “ _And_?”

“He... He’s seven years older than me. He used to make me measure him up for his suits, would call me a good girl, tell me how I belonged on my knees...” Morgana’s voice breaks, and she clutches Trevor’s shoulders around the tape measure, leaning her forehead against his spine, something so natural about the thought of doing it that she doesn’t even pretend to be disgusted by her actions. “He wasn’t very nice to me,” she whispers. “He made me... _do_ things, I...”

Trevor reaches up with his free hand, covering Morgana’s on his shoulder with his own. He doesn’t try to turn around, probably guessing that the last thing she wants is Trevor, sweatpants still around his ankles, trying to make something sexual out of a comforting gesture. All Morgana can think about is how warm his calloused hand is. “I can’t wait to see you kill him,” Trevor says eventually, as if he’s holding all his rage inside himself, and Morgana laughs a sob.

She stands back from Trevor after a moment, breaking the contact to wipe at her eyes. “Right. Okay. Where were we?”

“Shoulder width,” Trevor offers, and she takes the measurement again, reading it out to Trevor quickly.

“Sorry about all of... _that_ ,” Morgana says after a moment, as she takes the measurement of the arm Trevor’s not using to hold her phone. She manoeuvres it so it’s bent at the elbow. “I never normally get upset thinking about... about what happened,” she explains quietly, reading out the number before circling Trevor’s wrist with the tape. His hands are covered with tiny tattoos, scorpions and birds and text, and Morgana will need to acquire him some gloves for his suit to hide them. “It’s something I can’t help and it’s been and gone, y’know? Arthur’s made enough of a name for himself in LS that he can get a fresh bird every night without ever having to come knock on my door.”

“It’d be weird for the press too, I guess,” Trevor offers, “if you’re ‘sposed to be brother and sister.”

Morgana laughs cruelly. “As if people still believe that, despite my fucking Irish accent and him being the most English twat you could ever find. I’m just glad he got bored of me,” she says, tone lowering towards the end of her words.

Morgana releases the tape, walking around to the front of Trevor’s body again and crouching down on her heels, making sure her legs are together so Trevor can’t see up her dress. Trevor notices that she doesn’t put her knees on the floor once. “I’m gonna get you to hold this end,” she says, offering one end of the tape to Trevor, who reluctantly accepts it.

“There I thought I was going to get a little bit of lovin’ from you, Morgs,” he says. Morgana looks up to him with hurt on her face.

“Did you even hear any of wh--?”

“Yes, _sweetcheeks_ , it’s called a joke,” Trevor says with a groan, rolling his eyes and gesturing dramatically with the hand holding Morgana’s phone. “Now where am I putting this?”

“As high as you can on the inside of one of your legs. If it’s not on your leg and on your junk instead, I won’t get a good measurement.”

Trevor huffs, and Morgana averts her eyes as Trevor rearranges himself to get the tape in the right place. Instead, she focuses on pulling it down into where his sweatpants are pooled at his feet, trying to find where his foot meets the floor. “If you tickle my feet, I swear to god I’ll knee you in the fucking face.”

Morgana laughs instead of feeling threatened. “I’ll store that information for future blackmail purposes, thank you,” she says, looking up at Trevor with a sweet smile. “34,” she says, and Trevor taps it in.

“Are we nearly done?” Trevor asks.

“Nearly,” Morgana says as she stands up again, one of her knees clicking with the movement. “Two more.” She takes the measurement of Trevor’s arm again, this time straight and down to where the end of a suit jacket cuff would sit, and then finally takes one from the back of his neck to just past his bum. “All done. Got those?”

“Yup,” Trevor says, turning around to face her, tapping away at her phone. “All saved. Wow, you take _a lot_ of selfies.”

Morgana reaches for her phone but Trevor moves it out of her reach. She tries again, and Trevor puts one large hand against her shoulder. “Trevor!” she whines. “Give it back.”

“Oh no, these are far too good, I might just--”

Trevor falls silent, his eyes going wide as he stares at the screen. Morgana plucks her phone from his hands, dreading what she’ll find open as she turns it around to face her. It’s a picture she took of her on her bed, the big expensive one in her apartment with the city view. The camera is facing over her shoulder, so the only thing visible is her ass and her feet crossed over each other, red-soled high heels on her feet. She’d felt particularly beautiful that day, and so decided to capture it.

“Sorry,” Trevor says awkwardly. He uses the moment to pull his sweatpants back up.

“You don’t sound sorry at all, you pervert,” Morgana says, deleting the photo. It was for the best, before the press or, even worse, Trevor managed to get a copy of it. “You ever gonna learn boundaries?”

“Like I said, Princess, I can’t help it when I’m around _you_ ,” Trevor says, and Morgana rolls her eyes.

“You should stop calling me princess,” Morgana says, reading the note on her phone and making sure it’s all correct, saving it. She sits on the edge of Trevor’s sofa, pulling the piece of paper Amélie gave her out of her bag.

“Why?” Trevor asks, sitting down next to her.

Morgana doesn’t bother looking up from her phone as she replies. “Because I’m not a princess. I’m a queen.”

“Does that make me a king?” Trevor says, and Morgana glances up to see an energy in his movements. “Because I pretty much rule Los Santos at this point.”

“Well, you and Franklin and Michael,” Morgana counters, sending the email and putting her phone in her handbag. “The Unholy Trinity, you said. So I take it you must be the unholy ghost, then?” Morgana says, a smile on her lips.

“I dunno, that should be Mikey seeing as he came back from the dead, but then that would make me the _father_.” Trevor says the word as if it tastes sour.

Morgana laughs, putting her head on her hand, elbows on her knees. “Don’t see yourself as a da anytime soon?”

“A _what_?” Trevor says, enraged. “For fuck’s sakes. No, no I don’t want to be a _da_ anytime soon. My own father fucked me up enough, can you imagine what _I_ would do to a kid?” Trevor looks away, then, and not before Morgana catches the look on his face.

“You can’t be serious,” she probes. “I think you’d make a good father.”

Trevor laughs with a hint of hysteria in his tone. “Sorry, have we met before? Wait until you see me fuck someone up, Morgs, you’ll be changin’ your tune real quick.”

“I disagree. You’re pretty disciplined, you’d make sure the kid wouldn’t have the room to fuck up. I bet my last dollar that you’d protect them ‘til kingdom come, you aren’t gonna let anyone touch a hair on its head,” Morgana says, and Trevor turns his attention back to her, slowly. “I know you’re loaded, too. The kid isn’t ever going to want for anything.”

“Alright, alright, I get the fucking point,” Trevor says, admitting defeat with a wave of his hand. “I could teach him to shoot deer, or rednecks, or something,” he says dismissively.

Morgana grins a shit-eating grin. “I knew it. I hope you never have a girl, though. Poor thing will never be allowed a boyfriend.”

Trevor looks at Morgana for a moment before he eventually smiles. “Huh, yeah,” he says, almost laughing. “You’re pretty spot on, there.”

“You’re not a bad person, y’know,” Morgana says. She realises how close they’re sitting together, how she can see every detail in the tattoos littered across Trevor’s forearms and hands.

“I’ve killed people,” Trevor shoots back, furrowing his brow. “Doesn’t that make me a bad person by default?”

“Well I’m a bad person as well, then. I’ve killed too, you know,” Morgana says, tucking a bit of her hair behind her ear.

Trevor stutters for a moment, eyes wide. “But I _like_ killing people. I’ve tortured people. I’ve ended people’s lives in ways that you couldn’t even fucking imagine in that pretty little head of yours, and you’re telling me _you’re_ a bad person?”

Morgana tilts her chin up a little. “Yeah, I am.”

“You wouldn’t know bad if it slapped you across the face, Princess,” Trevor says, and Morgana is pretty sure that’s a threat.

She sighs dramatically. “I told you to stop calling me that,” she says as she stands up, scooping up her handbag as she does so.

“Where exactly are you going? Stop fuckin’ disappearing on me,” Trevor says, standing up and following her into his bedroom. “Don’t you think this is a bit premature?” he jokes, but Morgana’s already rifling through his wardrobe and the shelf above where his clothes hang. “You gonna fucking talk to me or what?”

“Aha! I knew you’d have one,” Morgana says, finding what she’s looking for. She holds the balaclava in one hand, the other on her hip as she turns around to face Trevor again. “Now, you gonna show me where you keep your guns?”

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Trevor deadpans, looking between Morgana’s face and his balaclava in her hands. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re playing at?”

“Being a bad person,” Morgana says, disenchanted. “Now where do you keep your guns?” Morgana pushes past Trevor to head outside, her high heels clattering down the porch steps before she storms across the front yard to her car. Opening the passenger door, she rifles through her bag of spare clothes while Trevor looks on, dumbfounded. “What, do you think I’m robbing a store in my favourite heels?”

“What the fuck is _wrong with you_?” Trevor nearly shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. He turns and walks back towards his trailer, going to a side compartment and opening it up to reveal an arsenal of weapons. “Fine, fine! Whatever. I’ll start you on the Micro SMG, it’s a nice girly weapon.”

Morgana, now in flat pumps, slams the door of her car. “Fuck you. I know my way around a shotgun better than you probably do,” she says as she walks towards Trevor, grabbing a heavy shotgun out of the compartment.

His hand goes to hers, holding the weapon in place. Morgana tries to move it, but it doesn’t budge. “I know shotguns pretty fuckin’ well, missy,” Trevor sneers, rage in his eyes. “And you ain’t ever had reason to fire one.”

Morgana snatches the shotgun out of Trevor’s hands. “Then you ain’t ever been to Dublin, _mister_ ,” she sneers, mocking him in response. “I need shells, and a store to rob.”

“You don’t even know where the fuck you’re going?” Trevor asks, growing even more agitated. “Fuck this. You’re doing this on your own, you stupid fucking psycho bi--” Trevor pauses. “Oh, who the fuck am I kidding.” He grabs a carbine rifle and a pistol, tucking the latter into the back of his sweatpants. Trevor also takes a couple of grenades - just in case - before slamming the compartment shut. He looks over to Morgana, climbing into the passenger seat of his truck. “Of course. Because we wouldn’t want to go in the _really_ fast car, that could get us away quickly if we - well, _you_ \- fuck up.”

“Great idea. Can’t wait to see a car registered to a certain fucking _supermodel_ all over the news,” Morgana spits back as Trevor climbs into the cab, pushing his carbine into Morgana’s hands so he can drive. “Real subtle that is, too.”

“Will you just _shut_ the fuck up?” Trevor says, and for a moment Morgana panics. She hasn’t planned this at all, yet she’s about to go rob a store that she hasn’t cased out, hasn’t done any preparation for, armed only with a shotgun in her lap and a maniac at her side? It’s a deathwish, she’s sure of it, but the adrenaline pumping through her veins says otherwise.

The Bodhi roars out of Sandy Shores, heading towards Grapeseed, anti-clockwise around the Alamo Sea. For once, Trevor turns off the loud rock music blaring from the radio, leaving them with just the sound of the engine for company. Morgana looks around them as they drive, taking in the mountains and the slightly longer shadows as evening begins to creep over them.

“You got a plan then?” Trevor says, as if he’s been defeated already.

Morgana starts loading her shotgun with shells. “Park up, go in, wave my shotgun at the cashier, you cover anyone who might be shopping, get the money, get the fuck outta there.” She shrugs her shoulders. “That’s how these things go, right?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Trevor mutters to himself, eyes glued to the road as the shoreline follows them on their left. “You’ve got to be quick thinking for this kind of shit. It could all go wrong in a moment, one fucking second, then you’ve got to switch on and just... just do it, y’know? No fucking second chances.”

“Yeah, because you’ve never had a heist go wrong,” Morgana says, sarcasm thick in her voice.

“You want to watch your _fucking_ mouth before I turn on _you_ , _Princess_ ,” Trevor spits, pulling off the main road sharply to head into Grapeseed. He parks just outside a convenience store, letting the truck slowly roll to a stop. “Alright, this is how this is gonna go,” he says lowly, and Morgana realises how quiet it is without the engine running. “I’m gonna go in first, have a scout around for exits, potential hostages, and all that bullshit. Then I’ll come out, grab you and my gun, and you can go fuck shit up. Happy?”

Morgana isn’t, but she just smiles and nods anyway, something she’s so used to doing. She ties her hair back with the band around her wrist and then pulls her balaclava over her head as Trevor gets out of the truck, his carbine still in Morgana’s lap. Her eyes widen as she has an idea.

Through the window of the shop, she can see Trevor walking through the little aisles. The cashier looks on edge, and she sees him reach for a concealed weapon. She jumps out of the truck, carbine in her hands, running towards the doors. She bursts through them to find the cashier, to her right, pointing a shotgun at Trevor, just as she suspected.

“Put the fucking gun down,” she shouts in as American of an accent that she can muster, aiming her rifle at the cashier with one strong arm.

“Or what?” The cashier says in a heavy Mexican accent. “I know this guy. He’s wanted, I could make lots of money from him,” he says, jerking his shotgun towards Trevor. Trevor looks to Morgana with his hands up in the air. She could pump the cashier full of lead, sure, but at what cost? A heavy shotgun like his at this range would end up in both her and Trevor seriously injured, or worse.

She keeps her rifle trained on the cashier, the butt of it pulled into her right shoulder for support. Seeing the cashier look at Trevor, Morgana makes her move. Quickly, she grabs Trevor’s pistol, tucked down the back of his sweatpants, and points it at his head. “Or I take both him and you out. Doesn’t mean shit to me,” she says in answer to the cashier’s question, and her heart feels like it’s going to burst out of her chest. She can feel Trevor’s eyes on her, but she doesn’t want to turn her head to see the hurt in them. “If you shoot him, I’ll fucking make sure you go down for years. So here’s the deal. You put that gun down, empty that register, and you don’t get hurt.”

“I’d listen to her,” Trevor says lowly.

“Shut the _fuck_ up!” Morgana yells, pushing the end of his pistol against his head, not even sure if she’s pretending to be unhinged anymore. She snaps her head back towards the cashier. “I’m gonna count down from five,” she shouts, “before I shoot both of you. Five. Four.”

“Alright, Jesus,” the cashier says. Morgana lowers her pistol arm, bracing the now-heavy rifle’s handguard across her left forearm as she trains it on the cashier, now counting the money from the drawer. She knows Trevor is behind her, and she half-expects him to smack her over the head or something similar for royally fucking all of this up, but all he does is pluck the money bag from the counter as soon as the cashier sets it down. “What the--”

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” Trevor shouts over his shoulder as he flees the shop, Morgana keeping her rifle trained on the cashier until she’s out of the store too. She jumps into the Bodhi, Trevor already revving the engine impatiently.

He swerves into the traffic, gunning it back towards Sandy Shores. “And just what the _fuck_ was that?” he roars, banging his fist against the dashboard hard enough for the aged plastic to crack. “What the fuck were you _thinking_?”

“I was thinking that you were going to get yourself _killed_ if I didn’t fucking intervene!” Morgana screams back, American accent dropped. “You’re the one who went to rob a place in the next fucking town over! You own a fucking hangar here! As if people won’t know you!”

“Shut up, shut _up_ ,” Trevor shouts in response, and they both fall silent as they hear it. Sirens. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

“Head north,” Morgana says, turning around in her seat to look behind them. She can see two cop cars chasing them, swerving through the single-lane traffic to try to speed up. “Fuck, get us somewhere we can lose them.”

“Why don’t you give it a go if you can do a better job?” Trevor sneers, nearly throwing Morgana into his lap as he takes a sharp corner. She sits up again, this time kneeling on her seat with the carbine in her hands, facing backwards. “You’re not serious.”

“Watch me,” Morgana dares, aiming down the scope to the pursuing cop cars, their sirens echoing around empty valley floor they’re now beginning to pass through. She fires a burst of rounds into the hood of the front cop car, immediately causing a flicker of flame to creep through the grille. It’s a freeing feeling, having an automatic weapon in her hands again. She fires another few rounds, the whole front of the car going up in flames, skidding to a halt in the middle of the road.

There’s more cop cars now, and one of the officers is using a megaphone to tell them to pull over. “Sharp left,” Trevor says, and Morgana uses her left hand to grip the closest solid object as the Bodhi lurches around a corner, going up an on-ramp onto the highway, heading through a valley with steep mountains either side. Morgana aims her rifle again, this time not messing around as they begin to pick up speed. She puts a bullet through the chest of one of the pursuing police officers, his horn blaring as he swerves off the road. Morgana watches his partner try to push the dead driver out of the seat, before they swerve off the highway and crash into a deep ditch.

“Did you just kill someone?” Trevor asks, voice high with incredulity as he quickly throws a glance over his shoulder.

“Focus on your job, I’ll focus on mine,” she says, lining up for another shot. A bullet zips past her, though, and she ducks down quickly inside the cab again. “We need to lose this heat.”

“Well, if you stopped fuckin’ shooting cops, we wouldn’t have so many of them to worry about,” Trevor argues back, pulling a sharp right to veer off the highway and onto a downwards grass slope full of trees. Branches whip across their faces, Morgana’s mostly covered still by her balaclava, before they emerge to a huge view of the ocean before them, the ground rapidly running out.

“Holy shit, _stop_!” Morgana cries, grabbing Trevor’s arm as he slams his foot down on the brake. The Bodhi comes to a stop a few feet from the cliff edge, and Trevor cuts the engine as soon as the handbrake’s on.

The sirens continue to wail in the background, but they’ve continued on up the highway, a helicopter buzzing about somewhere in the distance. Morgana lets go of Trevor’s arm and pulls her balaclava off, rubbing at her sweaty face and trying to control her breathing. She lets her hair down from her ponytail and shakes it out, giving her trembling hands something to do.

“So,” Trevor exhales shakily, and Morgana looks towards him for a moment, then back to the ocean. The sky is turning a dark blue on the horizon as the sun sets over the mountains behind them. He doesn’t say anything else, the silence eventually settling around them like a comforting blanket. Somewhere below them, the waves crash against the rocks, the noise dulled from where they sit.

“How much did we take?” Morgana asks eventually, softly, looking over to Trevor.

Trevor pulls the cash bag up from under his seat, glancing inside for a couple of seconds. “A grand, maybe a bit more,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “The money, it doesn’t matter, y’know? I’m a millionaire, for fuck’s sakes.”

“Yeah,” Morgana says, and suddenly she feels as if they’re avoiding something. She clears her throat lightly. “Should probably just get rid of it then, if neither of us need it.”

“The thrill, though,” Trevor says, and he gazes out over the ocean with a faraway look in his eyes. “You can’t get that anywhere else. It’s better than sex,” he nods to himself.

Morgana laughs quietly. “My heart’s still thumping,” she says, and it is. She feels like she’s electric, as if she’s high. She can’t shake the smile from her face.

“Mine too,” Trevor says lowly, so lowly that Morgana barely hears it. He takes her hand from where it sits in her lap, and while she quietly gasps in surprise, she does nothing to stop him from placing it against his chest. True to his word, Trevor’s heart is beating hard in there, at a tempo even Morgana’s can’t match. “That’s quite a feat for an old man like me,” he drawls, half-smiling towards Morgana.

She looks up at him. “You’re not old. You’re under fifty, right?”

“Just,” he breathes. Morgana pats his chest once, warm under her hand, before she sits back in her seat again, body still turned towards him.

“You’re not an old person then,” she smiles.

Trevor laughs darkly, tipping his head back a little as he does so. “Speaking of the kind of people we are, remind me to never call you a good person again. You’re a fucking...” Trevor throws his hands up in the air uselessly in a muted gesture of exasperation. He looks away. “I don’t even know what you are. You ain’t a good person, though, for pointing a gun at my head.”

Trevor turns back to Morgana and she finally sees the hurt in his eyes, where only a few seconds ago there had been mirth. He was absolutely ready to be betrayed, just as his family and his best friend had done in the past. “I would have _never_ pulled the trigger,” Morgana says softly, as if her words are bullets themselves.

“How do I know that?” Trevor asks, putting a hand to his chest, where Morgana’s had been moments before. “ _Everyone_ I’ve ever trusted has turned their back on me. How do I know you ain’t gonna do that by just putting 9 millimetres of lead through my skull?” Trevor argues, fire in his eyes.

Morgana doesn’t think before she raises her hand, cupping Trevor’s jaw softly with it. He exhales, the tension leaving his shoulders and face immediately. Without a second thought, she leans forward and places a delicate kiss upon Trevor’s lips, sitting back again before he even has a chance to close his eyes.

“Oh,” Trevor says, and Morgana swipes her thumb softly across Trevor’s cheekbone before she drops her hand. Trevor catches it, looking between her fingers and her face for a moment. “That was nice.”

“Are you convinced I’m not going to do a runner on you yet?” Morgana asks with a lilt to her voice, only serving to accentuate her accent. Trevor studies her hand, flipping it over to look at her palm. Her hand looks so tiny between his, she thinks.

“Hmmmm, _no_ , not quite,” Trevor says, but he’s smiling. “Can I get another one of what you were giving out?” he asks, putting on his sweetest voice.

Morgana rolls her eyes. “No. You’re still an eejit,” she mock pouts, but she smiles shyly to him. The stars are beginning to appear above their heads, and suddenly Morgana shivers with the cold.

“Let’s go get some dinner or something,” Trevor says, starting the Bodhi’s engine again. He checks it’s in reverse twice before his foot touches the accelerator. “Put our money to good use.”

“Sounds good to me,” Morgana says as Trevor makes his way back through the shrub, headlights on, to re-join the highway again, still going northbound.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is this a date?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up immediately where the last chapter left off. Let me know if you enjoy it! <3

The wind rushing around the truck makes Morgana’s hair whip around her face, the air cooling rapidly as the stars emerge above them. The car behind them blares its horn as they pull onto the highway again after their slight detour; Morgana flips the bird at them, and Trevor sniggers.

“So what, have you released your _bad girl_ attitude now, just because we took a store? Is this what I’ve been missin’ out on the past few days, eh?” Trevor says, and Morgana swears it’s a tease.

She allows herself to laugh fully. “No, it’s me just being me. I think after pointing a gun at you, the least I can do is just be myself. It’s...” Morgana looks around her at the countryside rushing past them, sweeping her hair out of her face, the beach beginning to span across to her right hand side. “It’s pretty exhilarating, being myself for once.”

“Actually, nah, I don’t think it was the score. I think it was because you kissed me-- hear me out!” Trevor says, wagging a finger in Morgana’s face. “You kissed me, you’ve realised that you can’t stoop any fucking lower than you now have, and so, like me, you’ve decided to simply not give a fuck anymore. It’s a _wonderful_ feeling, lemme tell you.”

Morgana ponders this for a moment. “That’s a pretty shitty end of the bargain for you, then.”

“Me?” Trevor laughs hysterically. “I just got kissed by _the_ Morgana Pendragon and you’re tellin’ me _I_ got the shitty end of the deal?” he says, and Morgana giggles, because he’s grinning from ear to ear in a way she’d never thought imaginable. This man beside her, who had been described by both others and himself as a cold-blooded killer, is smiling like the maniac he professes to be just because she pecked him on the lips. She shakes her head to herself.

“Where are we heading?” Morgana asks to take the subject off her kissing Trevor. She’s not still entirely sure why she chose that moment to do so, but she doesn’t regret it for a second.

“Paleto Bay, seeing as we were heading in that direction before our impromptu cliff-top date.”

“It was _not_ a date,” Morgana shoots back too quickly, and the smug look on Trevor’s face tells her that she fell for the bait perfectly.

“Is _this_ a date?” Trevor asks, gesturing between them. “Me taking you to dinner with my hard earned cash?”

“ _Our_ hard earned cash,” Morgana says, smiling. “I... yeah. Maybe,” she says, biting her lip. Her eyes go wide. “Shit. What if someone recognises me? I can’t be seen with you.”

“Geeee, _thanks_ ,” Trevor drawls comically, before he starts ticking options off on his fingers, forearms braced against the steering wheel. “Here’s what we can do. I could wear the balaclava--”

“No.”

“-- _you_ could wear the balaclava--”

“Definitely not.”

“--we could go to the skin joint I own there, no one would say a word, they’re all terrified of me.”

Morgana eyes Trevor suspiciously. “No. I don’t want to be responsible for some poor stripper’s death.”

Trevor laughs deeply, which doesn’t convince Morgana otherwise. “Or we could just go to a restaurant, I tip the staff to find us a dark booth somewhere, I also offer to kill anyone who disturbs us.”

Morgana thinks for a moment as they pass the town limits of Paleto Bay, a tiny coastal town. “This is going to be the closest thing we have to an actual option, isn’t it.”

“Yep,” Trevor drawls, grinning towards Morgana for a moment. He pulls off the highway, navigating down what must be the main strip of the town before he pulls up at the edge of the curb, killing the engine. They stash the guns behind their seats, Trevor taking most of the cash from the bag and pocketing it.

Morgana gets out of the truck first, Trevor walking around the hood of the vehicle and joining her on the kerb. He stands a little closer than he would’ve before this evening, and Morgana realises how much taller Trevor actually is when she’s not wearing her high heels. “Shall we?” she asks, and Trevor nods. They begin walking down the sidewalk away from the Bodhi, and Morgana is overcome with a strange sensation to hold Trevor’s hand. She stomps it down, not wanting to tempt fate in any way, shape, or form.

“Is this place okay?” Trevor asks eventually as they stop outside of a restaurant called Mojito Inn. He actually sounds nervous.

“Christ, you ever taken a girl on a date before?” Morgana teases, sticking the tip of her tongue between her teeth for a moment as she grins.

“Fuck off,” Trevor snaps without heat. “My normal kinda girl is happy with a burger from Up-n-Atom and maybe a quickie in an alley. She doesn’t have fuckin’ _airs_ like some princesses do,” Trevor argues back, and Morgana can tell she’s hit a nerve.

“You’re not gonna stop using that nickname, are you?” she asks as she looks the bar over. It looks kind of nice, despite claiming to be the venue for the Annual Paleto Poultry Pageant. She doesn’t want to know what that involves.

“Nope,” Trevor drawls, starting to walk towards the door of the restaurant. He holds it open for Morgana, touching the small of her back as he guides her inside. Subsequently, he doesn’t see the blush that spreads across Morgana’s cheeks at the gesture. Once inside, Trevor slips a hundred dollar bill to the host. “Give us the quietest table possible, and I want you as our waiter.” The man nods quickly, eyes wide, before he turns and leads Morgana and Trevor to a quiet corner of the restaurant, the rest of the tables around them unfilled. There are menus and cutlery waiting for them, and the waiter lights the small candle in the middle of the table as they take their seats.

“What can I get you to drink?” the waiter asks once they’re settled. Morgana’s sure that he has recognised her, but with the looks-could-kill stare that Trevor is giving him, she doubts he’ll be saying anything about it anytime soon.

“A whiskey for me,” Morgana says, attempting her American accent once more to throw the waiter off the scent, so to speak.

“Pißwasser for me,” Trevor says, and the waiter scuttles off. Morgana doesn’t mention about drinking and driving; she’s absolutely certain he’s done much worse, and as long as he doesn’t get tanked they should be fine. He picks up a dog-eared menu and flicks through it. “Your American accent isn’t half bad, y’know,” he says conversationally.

“After living here eight years it shouldn’t be,” Morgana says back.

“Your choice of drink, however, is much more interesting,” Trevor says, elbows on the table, hands laying on top of one another. Morgana can see a small bird on one of them, similar to the one behind his left ear.

“Why? It’s in my blood, pretty much,” Morgana says with a smile.

“I thought you said you didn’t drink,” Trevor says, and Morgana’s eyebrows raise in surprise. She knows that she told Trevor that, but she hadn’t been expecting him to actually remember as much.

“Not normally, and not hard stuff like whiskey either,” she says, before she smiles a little to herself, looking down at her menu. “Special occasions.”

“Oh, so this _is_ a date,” Trevor says, and Morgana looks up under her eyelashes at his smile before she looks back down at her menu. “I recommend the cheeseburger, but you’re going to go for a salad or a stick of celery, aren’t you?”

Morgana laughs loudly. “Have you _seen_ me?”

“Multiple times,” Trevor retorts quickly, putting effort into looking her up and down.

“You can’t have tits and hips like mine if you don’t eat like a pig,” she continues, and the waiter chooses that moment to arrive with their drinks.

“What are you guys having to eat?” he asks quickly, unloading their drinks onto the table.

“We’ll both have cheeseburgers,” Trevor says, “extra fries for each.”

The waiter nods his head and disappears again. “Well, it’s been a while since someone ordered for me,” Morgana says eventually, a little stunned.

“Never taken none of your marks out to dinner?” Trevor says, raising an eyebrow. “Bit of main course before the dessert?”

Morgana sighs. “No. I mean, yes, I’ve had to dine with them sometimes, but... men are intimidated by me, I guess? They would never dare to just _assume_... but you,” she says, gesturing with one hand towards Trevor. “You don’t give a fuck. It’s refreshing.”

“I was just _concerned_ about maintaining those tits and hips,” Trevor says, picking up his beer. He salutes Morgana with it. “Assets which are worthy of drinking to.”

Morgana shakes her head with a smile, picking up her glass of whiskey and toasting it against Trevor’s. “Whatever,” she says before taking a big gulp, the alcohol burning a little on the way down. “Wow, they’ve actually bothered with the nice stuff,” Morgana says, inspecting the glass by holding it up to the light.

“Maybe the waiter is hoping you’ll tip him. With sex.” Trevor raises his eyebrows.

Morgana rolls her eyes. “And you’d be okay with that, would you?”

That catches Trevor off guard. His mouth opens and closes, but he doesn’t make a sound. Morgana smirks. “I didn’t think so.”

A silence descends over them both, and Morgana can’t quite work out whether it’s comfortable or uncomfortable. “I need to head back to my motel when we get back to Sandy Shores,” Morgana says after a few moments.

Trevor focusses on the flame of the candle, swiping his hand harmlessly through it a couple of times. “You can still stay with me. You can have the bed, _and_ I’ll even clean out the cigarette butts for you.”

Morgana furrows her brow. “You don’t smoke.”

“Eh, no,” Trevor says, shrugging. “Sometimes I have hookers over though, and they’ll smoke in there.”

Morgana pulls a face. “I’ll pass, thanks. The fag ends are probably the least offensive gross things in your bed.”

“The what now?” Trevor asks, scrunching up his face in confusion.

The waiter chooses that moment to return with their meals, setting them down on the table and leaving them in peace without a word. Morgana’s eyes go wide at the size of her burger, and at the amount of fries surrounding it. “Holy shit,” she says, looking up to find Trevor already biting into his burger. “How can you get your mouth around all that?” she asks before she realises exactly what she’s said.

Trevor laughs with his mouth full, putting his burger down to drag his forearm over his mouth. He swallows. “Oh, Princess, I’m quite used to having meat in my mouth.”

Morgana pauses with her cheeseburger halfway up to her mouth. “What,” she deadpans.

“Cock? Dick? Man meat? Do I have to spell it out?” Trevor says, before angrily taking another bite of his burger.

Morgana’s still hovers in mid-air. “No, I--”

Trevor says something around a mouthful of food, but Morgana guesses it’s along the lines of “is that a problem?”

“No! For fuck’s sake,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Did they want it?”

It’s Trevor’s turn to splutter. “What?” he says, spraying crumbs. Morgana scrunches up her nose and waves her hand in his direction, as if to flick them back towards him.

“Did they want their dicks getting sucked, you fucking them, whatever?” she asks, voice razor sharp. She’s aware that she’s close to being loud, but there’s no one remotely close to them. She takes a bite of her cheeseburger, finally, and it’s even better than it looks.

“Yes! I mean... shit, I was the one getting fucked a lot of the time. That was all a long time ago, alright? But it happened, and you needed to know.”

“It’s fine with me,” Morgana says after she’s finished her mouthful. “Just a shock, that’s all.” She takes another small bite as Trevor finishes his burger off, licking his fingers noisily before starting on the fries. He only pauses shovelling them into his mouth to swig at his beer, and it occurs to Morgana that she hasn’t seen Trevor eat before, and judging by the state of his trailer, he doesn’t cook for himself very often.

Then she realises that she’s _worrying_ about Trevor, so she focuses on finishing her burger instead. Once she finishes, she brushes her hands together lightly, before sucking on the tip of her thumb to catch a stray bit of sauce. “I slept with a girl once.”

Beer droplets spray between them as Trevor does a spit-take. “You _what_.”

“Now who’s being judgemental?” Morgana asks lightly, and Trevor wipes his mouth with his hand.

“I ain’t being judgemental, _Princess_ , I’m being quickly turned on. Care to elaborate?”

“Not really,” Morgana says, smiling. Trevor growls, and Morgana can only laugh. “She was a mark, that’s all. Pretty well known in Vinewood. Her name was Anita, but that’s not her stage name.” She bites a fry in half, licking the salt off her lips.

“Did you kill her?” Trevor asks, hands flat on the table, and Morgana notices he’s leaning forward slightly.

“No,” Morgana says, drawing out the word. She sucks the salt off one of her fingers, locking eyes with Trevor as she does so. “She was just for information. Too famous to suddenly die in suspicious circumstances. She’s also the straightest woman to ever walk this earth, if you believe the tabloids.”

“What about you?” Trevor says, finishing off his fries. He steals one off Morgana’s plate, but the focussed look in his eyes stops her from saying anything.

“Isn’t everyone like, _somewhere_ on the Kinsey scale?” Morgana says, averting her eyes.

“Hold the fuck up,” Trevor says slowly, and Morgana looks back to Trevor to see his hands high in the air. “Are you trying to tell me you regretted it? Because I’m not going to let you do that.”

“Why not?” Morgana fires back.

“Because... because sexuality is a _wonderful_ thing,” Trevor says, spreading his arms wide. “As long as you’re enjoying it, who the fuck cares? Why put a label on it? So you sometimes like chicks but you mostly dig guys. That’s fine. As long as you’re both getting _something_ out of it then fuckin’ do it.”

“Alright then, yeah,” Morgana says, nodding.

“Yeah what?”

“Yeah, I like girls. Sometimes. Not always. I mean, having sex with that mark wasn’t a bad thing. I enjoyed it, I mean... not just...” Morgana sighs, frustrated. “I enjoyed giving her pleasure, for once. I don’t often feel that way with men.” She rolls a shoulder in a half-shrug. “But then again, I can’t remember the last time a man took the time to give me pleasure in--” Morgana catches herself, eyes going wide as she raises a hand to her lips. She opens her mouth to apologise, but Trevor’s dark eyes stop her from doing so.

When Trevor speaks, his voice is just scraping the lower end of his register, and it goes right to Morgana’s gut. “Do you want me to change that?”

Morgana’s gut instinct is to say yes. There’s something about Trevor, about his careless, no-fucks-given attitude that draws her close. Something about the way he looks at her as if she’s both a piece of meat and the most precious thing in the world at the same time. Something in the lines of his tattoos and the scars on his skin that says that he’s so much more than the tough psychopath he tells the world that he is.

“Not yet,” she chooses to say instead, and Trevor groans, rolling his neck and exposing his Adam’s apple.

“So that’s not a no?” Trevor asks, and Morgana applauds his determination.

“Not a no, not quite a yes,” she says, before knocking back the rest of her whiskey. It was a generous amount, and she’s feeling a little light-headed. “Can we get out of here now?”

Trevor grins. He leaves a fifty on the table and shuffles out of the booth, Morgana on his heels. The waiter shoots them a lost look as they leave the bar, walking back down the street towards the truck. “You’re full of surprises, you know,” Trevor says.

“Explain,” Morgana says simply.

“Well,” Trevor starts, “first of all you've got that supermodel slash femme fatale thing going on, which is really hot by the way, _then_ you tell me you don't like sex, which is kinda odd considering the amount you have to have, but I get it. _Then_ you tell me that you kissed a girl and you _liked_ it.”

“I didn't _kiss_ her,” Morgana says, rolling her eyes.

“I didn't say you kissed her on the lips, did I?” Trevor leers. Morgana turns a violent shade of red at the comment as they climb into the truck, each of them slamming their respective doors behind them.

“So what?” she says after she composes herself, a few minutes later as they’re pulling onto the highway. “You’re full of surprises too. You’re a psychopathic, homicidal maniac who doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks, but if I mention someone that you care about, you’ll suddenly get all defensive.”

“No I don’t,” Trevor says, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Fine. I think Michael is a selfish prick who faked his death to get away from you,” Morgana says, saying the words as fast as she can to get them out of her mouth. They might be true, they might not be, but she doesn’t think badly of Michael at all.

The Bodhi swerves as Trevor aggressively overtakes a biker. “You take that _back_ ,” he growls.

“I don’t mean it, Trev, of course I don’t,” she says. “Michael’s good craic and a nice guy. Although the faking his death part might be true,” Morgana adds quietly, before realising that Trevor can still hear her.

“‘M gonna fake _your_ death in a minute,” he says lowly, just over the sound of the engine. “And I might just forget to not load the gun.”

Morgana laughs, because if she doesn’t, she’ll actually feel threatened. “That’s just rude. What would my agent say? I can’t be doing lingerie shoots with a gunshot wound.”

“Oh no, on second thoughts, I don’t want to stop those. They’re great spank bank material,” Trevor says back, and Morgana crosses her arms over her chest, huffing loudly. Trevor glances at her. “Oh, don’t be like that. That was a compliment! You have a _great_ figure,” he says loudly, the words nearly being blown over his shoulder by the air rushing around the truck.

They swing left onto a narrower road, and Morgana doesn’t quite know how to reply to Trevor’s comment, lacking the words. Instead, she tunes the radio to Radio Mirror Park, and Trevor groans loudly. She slaps his hand away from the dial. “Don’t, I love this song.”

She turns it up so the speakers are resonating with the bass, the music pouring out of the cab into the world around them as they travel through the night. The sound of one of her favourite songs starting makes her laugh, and she looks over to Trevor to see his disgusted face. “Oh, lighten up will you? We robbed a store, shot some cops, and had a nice meal.”

Trevor wags his finger at her, keeping one hand on the steering wheel. “Uh uh uh! You forgot one important detail. You _kissed_ me.”

“Are you ever gonna let that go?” Morgana asks, shouting over the music to be heard. “Or should I tell Franklin and _Mikey_ that you can’t shut up about me kissing you.”

The mountains give way to desert, and Morgana can see the lights of Sandy Shores in the distance. Trevor shakes his head and simply turns the music up even more. Morgana takes that as it is, and smiles smugly to herself as the DJ announces the end of the song, seamlessly introducing another filled with deep synths. It’s a song Morgana’s loved since she very first heard it, the lyrics had stuck with her ever since. “ _Destiny turned her face, nightmares and violent shapes_ ,” she sings under her breath, closing her eyes and simply feeling the wind across her skin. “ _State of dreaming has left me numb_.”

Morgana opens her eyes to see Sandy Shores open up around the truck, and she can feel Trevor’s eyes on her as she sings. “ _Blue eyes and wandering lips, true lies through fingertips_.” Morgana drums the beat of the song onto her tight-clad thighs, adjusting her skirt to pull it down a little, continuing to sing. She closes her eyes again, leaning her head back on the headrest with a sudden weariness, exacerbated by the whiskey and the adrenaline earlier with the robbery, and with sheer exhaustion. “ _Hidden tales of forbidden_ \--”

Trevor cuts both the engine and the radio suddenly, Morgana’s eyes opening slowly to find that they’re parked outside his trailer behind her Carbonizzare.

“-- _love_ ,” she finishes quickly, cutting the final note short.

“You’ve got a really nice voice,” Trevor says quietly as if the air in between them is fragile, and Morgana is reminded of their clifftop kiss mere hours earlier.

“I had lessons when I was a kid. Ballet, too,” Morgana admits, looking down at her hands in her lap. “Ma paid for them, she wanted me to have a normal life, didn’t want me getting caught up in all their RA shite.”

“See? I told ya you were full of surprises,” Trevor says, his features, so often set in a frown, soft for once. Morgana realises just how close they are to each other.

“I should... I need to go to my motel...” Morgana says. Trevor leans towards her and places one large hand on her thigh. She exhales shakily as Trevor presses his mouth against hers, pinning her back against the seat. Morgana makes a noise of approval as Trevor’s tongue traces the seam of her lips before she opens her mouth to him, reaching a hand up to run through the hair at the back of his head. The other hand she places on Trevor’s chest, and she can feel it rather than hear it when he growls at the contact.

Trevor tries to move closer, before he knees the shift stick hard. He breaks away to glare at it. “Jesus, fuck, you piece of shit truck I’m gonna fucking--”

“Trevor,” she giggles, cupping his jaw to bring his attention back to her. She feels dizzy, as if life is simply all a dream now.

She doesn’t want to wake up.

Trevor kisses her once again, more tentatively this time, settling on just leaning over the centre console rather than trying to cross it. His hand cups her face, and as Morgana closes her eyes, she smiles under his mouth.

“What’s gotten into you?” Trevor murmurs playfully as he ends the kiss. Morgana opens her eyes to Trevor’s inches from her own.

“Well, nothing yet,” Morgana says before she can think, and Trevor groans, squeezing his eyes shut as he sits back in his seat.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Morgs, you might just be the death of me,” he gasps out. “When you finally put out... _fuck_.”

Morgana looks on at Trevor’s episode, bemused, before she quickly kisses his cheek. “I’m going back to my motel now,” she says, turning to get out of the truck. She shuts the door behind her, looking over the top of it to Trevor, sat a little sadly in the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll be back bright and early. We have a masquerade to get ready for,” she grins.

“ _Great_ ,” Trevor draws out. “So you’re gonna leave me with blue balls before you feed me to the lions?”

Morgana smiles. “Hmm. Maybe I won’t send you the pictures from my new Inspector Knickers shoot if you’re going to be sour about it.”

Trevor leans towards her in the truck. “No no no, I’ll be a good boy, I promise,” he says, making the boy scouts sign with his fingers.

Morgana laughs, turning her back to Trevor to walk towards her car, digging her keys out of her handbag. “Maybe I won’t even send them until after the masquerade tomorrow, so I know that you’ll be good then,” she says, opening the door to her car but not getting in. She looks back over her shoulder to see Trevor climb out of his truck, their guns from the robbery in his arms.

“I’m expecting much more than just _pictures_ if I actually survive meeting Arthur fucking Pendragon,” he snarls, and Morgana laughs out loud.

“Goodnight, Trevor,” she says with a smile, watching him walk through his gate into his front yard.

“Yeah, yeah, send me those pictures, crazy lady,” he says with a fond tone, and Morgana shakes her head, climbing into her car. The drive to the motel is blessedly short, and the weird-looking teen from before barely bats an eye when she walks reception.

In her room, she sits on her bed with her thumb hovering over the ‘SEND’ button on her phone. The pictures aren’t any worse than normal, but they feel more personal somehow; they haven’t been released to the public yet, and it’ll be as if Trevor is the only person to see them. Unedited, they show Morgana in her full glory: the tiniest stretch marks on her hips, a slight scar on her arm from a drug deal gone wrong back in Dublin, the mole on her back that she isn’t particularly fond of. She bites her lip, and presses the button.

Morgana strips out of her dress and tights, pulling on the t-shirt and flannel trousers she sleeps in. The reply is nearly instantaneous.

_Beautiful_ _x_

Morgana smiles to herself, climbing into bed and setting her phone on the nightstand. For all his flaws, Trevor Philips still manages to fill her stomach with butterflies.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like the calm before the storm...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter! Hope you enjoy!

“Here’s the plan.”

Arthur looks around the table at his ‘knights’, his most trusted men... and Merlin. Arthur’s sat down this time, not standing up to present his plan, so to speak, deep in the basement of the Arcadius building on a cloudy Friday morning, a brief pause in their normal business. The CEO, head accountant, head of PR, head of security, and head of operations, all sat in their sharpest suits, The exception is Merlin, one of Arthur’s ‘enforcers’, dressed in a scruffy green parka and muddy jeans. There’s dirt under his fingernails.

“Morgana doesn’t want to be at this party tonight, so she’s going to be looking for any excuse to leave. Gwaine, Percy, I need you patrolling the exits. Find out if she drove in her car, where she’s parking it, the works.”

The two men nod at Arthur.

“Lance...” Arthur says, and then he drops his tone. “Merlin.” The latter looks up from the table, where he had been drawing absent-mindedly on a piece of paper. He sighs. “I need you in suits on the main floor, watching her every move. She’s got a plus one ticket and I have no idea who she’s bringing this time, try to get some intel on them so we can work out what she’s up to.”

“Arthur,” Leon says, piping up from where he’s sat on his right hand side. “What’s our stance with Morgana? Are we just going to pretend that this is fine?”

Arthur sighs. “Her running away like a little girl? Not fine at all. But we need to make out that it is, so when the time comes, the fingers of blame won’t point our way.”

“When the time comes?” Merlin asks slowly, as if his tongue is too heavy to wrap around the words. Arthur rubs his fingers against his temples in response.

Gwaine claps Merlin on the shoulder, startling the younger man. “We’re going to kill her if she doesn’t play the game, Merls.”

“Wait, we’re playing a game?” Merlin asks, a smile spreading across his face slowly. “I love games.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, putting his hands palms down on the table. “No, Merlin. What we’re _doing_ is making sure Morgana is going to comply and keep up her end of the bargain. If not, she dies.”

“Perhaps that’s a little harsh,” Leon says quietly, receiving a glare from Arthur. “She’s been loyal for ten years now. She might just be testing the waters; if we were to kill her now, then she’d have absolutely no chance of coming back to us, would she? Maybe we should give her a final warning. If she doesn’t come back after tonight, we cut her off. Bank accounts, apartment, car, the works. _Then_ after that, if she wants to run, we stop her.”

“She knows too much,” Arthur says, his hand on the glass table curling into a fist. “She hates my fucking guts, and you think that she wouldn’t sell me to the police at the first opportunity?”

“Well, she _has_ been gone a week,” Percy pipes up, Lance nodding at his side. “She would’ve done it by now if she wanted to.”

“Then what does she _want_?” Arthur asks, more to himself than the men gathered around the room.

The telephone in the middle of the table rings. Arthur nods to Lance, the closest, who presses the button to accept the call. “Arthur,” Gaius says from the other end of the line.

“Do you have new information?” Arthur asks quickly, leaning forward.

“Her Carbonizzare was spotted by one of the cops on our payroll, driving south into the city just now from somewhere in Blaine County. I _did_ ask him to pursue, but he apparently still has some kind of conscience because a call came over his radio about an assault against an old lady.”

The team can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Is that it? We know she’s back in the city?” Arthur asks.

“Shocking news flash there,” Gwaine says, spreading his hands as if he’s imagining a newspaper headline. “I can see it now. _Morgana Pendragon returns to city to get ready for a famous ball_.”

“Fuck off, Gwaine,” Arthur snaps. “At least this tells us she’s been staying out of the city somewhere. Percy, Gwaine, on what is essentially your border patrols tonight, you need to be looking at what car she arrives in, and try to tail her as she leaves if you can.”

“What’s my role in all of this?” Leon asks from Arthur’s side.

“Morgana’s escort,” Arthur says, and Gwaine sniggers. “ _Not_ like that. I’ll have to work the room for the business, as Uther would normally have done. I can’t babysit her all night, so you can instead. Get to know whoever her plus one is - probably just some Vinewood toy boy, knowing the harpy - and make sure she’s not going to go running off again any time soon.” Arthur turns to the rest of the room again. “Concealed weapons should be fine, I doubt they’ll be scanning for them but if they are, mention my name, tell them you’re my security for the night. You’ll be communicating via headsets; if you have a message for me, relay it via Leon, as I can’t have one in without looking shifty. Any questions?”

Merlin raises his hand. Arthur sighs. “Yes, Merlin.”

“I don’t have a suit,” he says simply, blue eyes wide and sad.

“Any _other_ questions?” Arthur asks instead.

“Not trying to be daft,” Gwaine starts, which earns him a round of sighs. “Alright, not as daft as usual. Weapons. Are we to cap Morgs if we need to? Because, y’know, that kinda stuff will get me arrested.”

“Gwaine,” Arthur says exasperatedly, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been put in jail for possession and driving under the influence how many times now? Are you really worried about being arrested?” Arthur sighs.

“Not as long as I get my next hit,” Gwaine winks, and Arthur exhales slowly, trying his hardest to not lose his temper.

“Anyway. _Don’t_ shoot Morgana; if it ever comes to that, that’s my job.” Arthur pauses for a second. “She might’ve hired a bodyguard or something, she can be tricky... or she might even be planning something herself.”

“Taking you out at a huge party?” Everyone’s heads turn to Percy, often silent during their meetings. Lance has taken that role this time.

“She might be desperate, and no one would bother searching her for a weapon. We’ll see. Play it by ear,” Arthur says, nodding to Gwaine once more. “Gaius?”

“Still here,” comes the voice through the phone.

“Don’t bother tracking Morgana’s phone for the time being; if we do manage to hook her back in, the last thing I want her doing is getting upset about us tracking her location. However, if she turns up at her apartment, then let me know. I have no doubts she’s acquired somewhere else, or _someone_ else to stay with, during the last eight years in case this kind of thing happened, and if we could find out where that is, all the better.”

“Got it,” Gaius says, before Arthur nods to Lance. Lance terminates the call.

“RV outside the Gentry at 1845. You’ll see my car.” Arthur nods, and they are dismissed.

“I’ll pick you up at half six,” Leon says to Arthur as he stands to leave. They all filter out into the corridor, squeezing into the elevator together to head back up to the offices.

And within the blink of an eye, all traces of their crimes and gritty other lives are erased. Gwaine cracks a joke about a woman he met at a bar last night, and Arthur allows himself to smile as Percy roars with laughter. Leon argues on behalf of the poor lady, and Lance makes them all laugh again as he points out that no woman enjoys a date who spends more time in the bathroom than she does. Only Merlin remains sombre, no longer able to flick that switch between work and play, no longer able to operate on the same level as he used to. Arthur notices him scratching at the scruff along his jawline, eyes darting around the elevator.

When the doors finally open on the top floor, Arthur takes Merlin by his arm. “You’re coming with me,” he hisses in Merlin’s ear, the younger man whimpering as he’s all but dragged across the room to Arthur’s office. Once inside, Arthur pulls the blinds down on the window to the rest of the office, leaving them alone with the view of Los Santos. “Sit,” he says to Merlin, and Merlin rushes to comply, sitting in the chair opposite Arthur’s.

Arthur looks at him for a moment, this huddled shell of a man sat in his luxurious office. They used to be friends, when they first moved to Los Santos and when Merlin realised that as long as he helped Arthur out, they’d never be enemies. They’d even spent nights together on occasion, Arthur too high-profile to simply go out and sleep with men, and Merlin too wrapped around Arthur’s little finger to be able to refuse.

They _used_ to be friends until Trevor Philips stole that from him. Now all he has is this meth-addicted, homeless-looking ghost in Merlin’s place. Arthur misses his clumsiness or his stupid smiles (although he’d kill himself before he told someone that), but more than that, Arthur misses his closest confidant.

He walks into his private bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror before sighing. He puts the plug in the sink and turns on the tap. “Merlin,” he calls. “Come in here.”

Merlin appears a few moments later, eyes still darting all over the place, pupils blown wide. Arthur can never tell whether he’s high or just crashing nowadays; he just constantly looks like a wreck. “Take off your coat,” Arthur says as softly he can muster, despite the rage brimming under his skin for a man he’s never met, the man who destroyed the most innocent thing he knew. As Merlin takes off his parka and hangs it on one of the hooks on the wall, Arthur steels himself once more, burying his emotions as always. “Sit down,” he says again, and Merlin looks around for a moment before he sits down on the closed toilet seat. His right knee bounces up and down.

Arthur swishes his hand around the water in the sink once before he turns off the tap. “I can’t have you going to a nice party with all this scruff on your face, can I?” Arthur asks, accentuating his words as if he’s talking to a baby; it isn’t far from the truth. Merlin pouts as Arthur grips his jaw between his hands, before letting him go to fish a razor and shaving cream out of the cupboard. Gwen keeps his office and his bathroom impeccably well stocked, to the point where it’s borderline creepy.

Arthur squirts cream into his hand, carefully smearing it around Merlin’s jaw line to cover all of his beard. Merlin looks up at him with frightened eyes, a deer caught in the headlights. Arthur wipes his hand on some toilet roll, abandoning it on the counter before wetting the razor and starting to shave Merlin. For a few moments, the only sound in the bathroom is that of the razor working its way across Merlin’s skin.

“Do you miss Morgana?” Arthur asks softly, crouching down in front of Merlin and tipping his head back gently to get to his neck.

Merlin swallows, Arthur nearly catching his skin with the razor as he does so. “She’s very nice to me. She always was, when we was back in Dublin, so it was,” he nearly slurs, and Arthur encourages him to go on. “She used to be my girlfriend.”

Arthur clenches his jaw, and then unclenches it. “I know.”

“But she couldn’t keep bein’ my girlfriend, because she was too pretty and she had to be the girlfriend of lots of people,” Merlin mumbles. “She makes me forget about wanting to... needing ice. But I still like her a lot. She’s very soft. Like a pillow.”

“Do you still love her?” Arthur prompts, finishing off the last bits of Merlin’s neck.

“When I got back from Trevor, she made me soup and gave me a hug. The soup was nice but the hug was nicer. I love her a lot.” Merlin’s eyes slip closed, a small smile on his dry lips.

Arthur wets a flannel under the tap, uses it to wipe the remaining foam off Merlin’s face. He looks much more youthful without the beard, but it highlights his hollow cheeks and the meth sores. “But she ran away,” Arthur says, and Merlin’s eyes open, losing the little light that they'd had in them.

“She'll come back,” Merlin says, with the kind of determination that only a man without a cause can have. “She'll miss me, and Gwen, and you.”

Arthur laughs sharply. “She won't miss me,” he says, continuing to drag that razor over Merlin’s skin.

“Yes. No, she won't.” Merlin smiles. “She once told me that you were very mean because you had a small thingie.”

Arthur angles the razor so it slices into Merlin’s skin, with Merlin wincing in pain at the wound. “Oh, I'm sorry,” Arthur says, voice dripping with sarcasm that'll go completely over Merlin’s head. “My hand slipped.”

“It's okay,” Merlin says, fingers pressed against his jawline to stem the flow of blood. “I won't do it again.”

Arthur smiles cruelly to himself, before finishing shaving his pet. “You're forgiven. Now, let's put you in a suit.”

*

“I can't believe you brought me to hipster fucking central. I might break out in hives from just being here.”

Morgana looks over to Trevor, looking quite at home in the passenger seat of her Carbonizzare, his suit, shoes, mask, and gloves already picked up and neatly packed into the trunk. Amélie was happy to bring it all to the rear entrance of her shop, and didn’t mind being told ‘no’ when she asked to meet _Morgana’s special friend_ in the flesh. Morgana pulls off the freeway and into Mirror Park itself. “Relax. I'm hardly going to introduce you to the neighbours, am I?”

“Ashamed of me, eh?” Trevor asks, but Morgana rolls her eyes. He’d been in an unusually chipper mood when she’d picked him up that morning, and during the hours their drive back into the city took, they’d traded nothing but words that bordered on insults.

In Morgana’s opinion, it’d been the best road trip ever.

“Here we are,” Morgana says, pulling up just down the road from her little yellow house. “Home sweet home.”

Trevor remains silent, simply climbing out of the car to retrieve his suit bag and shoe box filled with his accessories. Morgana pauses for a moment, realising quite how important the next few minutes are going to be; for the first time in all the years she’s owned this house, she’ll be inviting someone else in. It will no longer be her own private space.

Morgana breathes in deeply, and gets out of the car.

“Is this it?” Trevor says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards a pale blue house.

“No. Mine’s down the road a bit, c’mon,” Morgana says, starting to walk down the street, Trevor following behind her. “I don’t park the car out the front of it just in case one of Arthur’s spies sees it.”

“Wow, he _really_ has it in for you,” Trevor comments quietly. Morgana says nothing, just simply leads him up the path to her home. “Nice colour. Because you’re such a _sunny_ person.”

“Fuck off,” Morgana quips in reply, and Trevor laughs. She unlocks the door and opens it wide. “Come on in. It’s, um...”

Trevor steps inside and looks around quickly, taking in the homely clutter everywhere, the stacks of books, the abundance of colour within the room. “Not what I expected,” he says after a while, putting the suit bag and shoes down on the sofa.

“No?” Morgana asks. She shuts the door behind them but doesn’t move from it, suddenly nervous in her own home.

“Too... _colourful._ There’s so much stuff, and just... I thought you’d be one of those minimalist chicks.”

Morgana shudders. “No, no. That’s what my downtown apartment looks like, all sleek lines and glass and... _ugh_. It reminds me too much of Pendragon and all it stands for, I... no. I like the clutter. I like feeling like I belong, and this is how I feel like I’m at home.”

“Weird,” Trevor says, walking about the room. He opens the curtains of the bay window, looking out to the hills in the distance, soaked in the afternoon sun.

“It’s not weird, it’s perfectly normal,” Morgana says, taking Trevor’s suit and hanging it up over the door to her bedroom. “At least I don’t live in my own filth.”

“My own filth is _perfectly_ fine,” Trevor says, picking up one of Morgana’s books as if it’s contaminated with something. “You read these things?”

Morgana sighs. “That’s generally what they’re for, yeah.”

Trevor flicks through another, raising his eyebrows dramatically before reading out the title. “ _Jane Eyre_? Seriously?”

Morgana crosses the room, snatching the book from his hand before putting it down on the coffee table. “Look, it’s three now and we need to be there at seven.”

“That’s _four hours_ from now,” Trevor whines.

“And I’m a supermodel who has to look her best,” Morgana says, rolling her eyes. “I’m going to take a shower. No, you can’t join me,” she says quickly as Trevor opens his mouth. “Wait here and just... try not to touch too much.”

Trevor grins, and Morgana sighs, turning her back to him and going into her bedroom. She grabs her silk bathrobe off the back of the door, one of her creature comforts. “I mean it,” she reiterates, before she walks into the bathroom and locks the door behind her.

She can hear the fridge opening and closing through the door, and she sighs. Instead of worrying about Trevor destroying her home, she strips out of her clothes, turning the shower on and letting it run until it’s hot. Naked, she steps into the shower, smiling to herself as it creeps towards the perfect temperature. Morgana takes her time washing her hair and lathering her body in soap, then letting the conditioner sink into her hair as she shaves her armpits and then her legs. She then does her bikini line without thinking, _certainly_ without thinking that Trevor might be seeing it soon.

“Stop it, ‘Gana,” she mutters to herself, quickly rinsing the conditioner out of her hair and the rest of the suds off. She shuts off the shower, stepping out into the relative cool of the bathroom. Wrapping one towel around her hair, she dries off her body quickly, before putting on her bathrobe. She realises then just quite how skimpy it is, how it skims her curves and refuses to conceal her peaked nipples. She hopes Trevor will behave.

Unlocking the door, she steps out of the bathroom into the lounge. Trevor turns in his seat, looking over the back of the sofa. “Jesus. Your tits are even better in the flesh.”

So much for Trevor behaving.

Morgana crosses her arms over said _tits_. “You really have a way with words, y’know,” she says, crossing the lounge to her bedroom. She shuts the door perhaps a little too hard behind her and undoes the robe, in order to put on a matching set of panties and strapless bra.

There’s a soft knock at the door. “Morgs, I’m _sorry_ ,” Trevor says sincerely from the other side of the door. Morgana puts the dressing gown back on over her underwear. “It’s just... my mouth kinda _forgets_ to talk to my brain when I look at you, most of the time.”

Morgana smiles to herself a little, before she opens the door. Trevor nearly stumbles into her bedroom, having been leaning against the wood. “Alright, I take that back. You  _sometimes_ have a way with words.”

Trevor, to his credit, keeps his eyes on her face as he replies, despite the view Morgana’s tiny robe must be granting him. “Only where you’re concerned, Princess,” he grins, before he moves to the side and lets Morgana pass.

She heads into the kitchen. “Did I hear you going through my fridge earlier?” she calls.

“I didn’t eat anything!” Trevor says quickly, following her. “It’s all _way_ too healthy for me.”

“Oh that’s good, I was thinking we could order pizza?” she says, before she goes into the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of wine. “Well, that and get a bit pissed. I don’t think I can do tonight sober.”

Trevor spreads his arms wide. “Why didn’t ya say? I could’ve got you some _really_ nice stuff from this great guy I know--”

“I’m not going to turn up high, Trevor,” Morgana warns, reaching for two wine glasses from one of her cupboards. She hopes Trevor doesn’t notice that the robe is so short, he can probably see at least part of her ass as she does so. “Just tipsy enough to be able to deal with Arthur’s bullshit.”

“Now _that_ sounds like a plan,” Trevor says, as Morgana generously fills the two glasses with white wine.

“I’m just curious,” Morgana asks, handing Trevor a glass with a smirk on her lips. “When was the last time you drank anything other than that shitty beer of yours?”

“Hey,” Trevor says, frowning. “Pißwasser is _not_ shitty, okay? It’s just not as great as some of the others.” He pauses for a moment, leaning his hip against the counter. “I... do not recall.”

“God forbid you get given a champagne flute tonight,” Morgana teases, before she raises her glass towards Trevor. “To tonight, and the shitstorm that will bring.”

“To tonight,” Trevor drawls in a low tone, and Morgana nearly chokes on her wine. “You know... you look really beautiful without your makeup.”

Morgana feels her cheeks turning red. “Are you saying I’m not beautiful when I wear it?” She asks, distracting Trevor from her blush.

“No! I just... you’re just perfect, okay?” Trevor says, taking a long gulp of his wine. “Just... there you go.”

“Well, perfect or not, if I turn up without makeup tonight I’ll lost a lot of money,” Morgana says, a little sadly. “I need to do my eyebrows and hair too, get dressed...” she continues, counting them off her fingers. “And you need a bath.”

“Oh come on!” Trevor says, throwing his hands out, nearly sloshing his wine out of his glass. “I had a shower at _least_ three days ago.”

Morgana wrinkles her nose. “Shower of shit, maybe? You’re having a bath.”

“Or what?” Trevor asks. Morgana doesn’t miss the playful hint to his voice.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Morgana says, putting on airs. She fiddles with the lapel of her robe, pulling it down just slightly, revealing the tiniest tease of her breast. “You might not be allowed to help me get undressed later,” she says in a silky-soft voice. Looking up, she sees Trevor’s mouth hanging open slightly. She pulls the fabric back up again, expression hardening. “Take a fucking bath.”

“Alright! Shit,” Trevor says, taking three large gulps from his wine. “I’m gonna need this just to last the night with you, crazy bitch.” He says it like an endearment.

Morgana goes to the bathroom and starts running a bath, pulling fresh towels out of the closet before gathering her bottle of moisturiser and other toiletries to take back into the lounge. “I want you using soap, and wash your hair as well.”

“Yes, _mom_ ,” Trevor drawls, and Morgana narrows her eyes at him as she walks back into the lounge. She dumps her haul on the coffee table.

“Well go on then,” she says, shooing him towards the bathroom. He peels his t-shirt off and chucks it at her face. “Trevor!” she shrieks, throwing the stinking shirt onto the floor. “I hope you fucking drown,” she calls after him as the door shuts, and for a moment she doesn’t know if she’s sincere or not.

While Trevor is in the bathroom, Morgana takes her time pampering herself. She puts the TV on a random cartoon for some background noise before she starts moisturising her legs. By the time she’s finished tidying up her eyebrows, blow-drying her hair, and doing her foundation, Trevor still isn’t out of the bath. “Trev? Are you okay in there?”

Morgana hears the lock slide back, and the door opens to reveal Trevor all but naked aside from the tiny towel wrapped around his hips. “You have a thousand different fucking products in there. I bet a smell like a girl.”

Morgana exaggerates looking him up and down. “You don’t _look_ like a girl to me,” she says, and that makes Trevor stand up a bit straighter, smiling. “I have some cologne if you want to use that.”

“Thanks,” he says, padding through the lounge towards Morgana’s bedroom. Morgana follows, trying not to focus on Trevor’s shoulders and the way his back muscles move under his skin. She distracts herself by taking his suit bag off the bedroom door and laying it on the bed.

“Everything’s in there. Amélie also threw in some socks and a new set of boxers for you.”

“Wow. Real generous of her,” Trevor says, and Morgana nudges at him.

“That woman has practically been my mother for the last eight years, you’ll treat her with some respect, you know,” Morgana says, and her joke must’ve struck Trevor the wrong way, because his eyes go wide and the set of his mouth becomes a little pained. She puts her hand on his bicep. “It’s fine. Look, I’ll just leave you in here to get dressed, I’ll be--”

“I have literally no idea how to wear any of this,” Trevor interrupts, gesturing at the as-yet unopened suit bag.

Morgana runs a hand through her still-warm hair. “Are you asking me to dress you?” she asks, exasperated.

“Well, not _explicitly_ , but if that’s what you want to make of it, then fine,” Trevor says. Morgana looks to the ceiling, sighing dramatically.

“What did I do in a former life to deserve you?” she says as she shakes her head, before heading through to the lounge and her phone. “I’m ordering the pizza. What do you want?”

“Anything with pineapple on. It makes your come taste sweeter,” Trevor calls, and Morgana can’t help but roll her eyes. She dials the number for her favourite pizza place.

“Hi, can I get a large ham and pineapple?” she says, putting on an American accent. “No, that’s it. Yeah. Uh, Philips? 38 Mirror Park Boulevard. Thanks!” Morgana hangs up the phone, walking back into the bedroom to find the suit bag open, and Trevor already dressed in his underwear. They’re a snug fit, and Morgana swallows dryly.

“Nice accent,” Trevor says. She looks up to meet his gaze.

“Speaking of accents, how’s your American one?” Morgana asks, walking past Trevor to her dresser. Amongst the dozens of perfume bottles, she finds one of cologne. “Hold still,” she says as she turns to Trevor, spraying a little of the cologne onto either side of his neck, and then onto his wrists. She puts the bottle down, taking his hands and putting them up to his neck, so the spots of cologne are touching. “Don’t rub them, just hold them like that,” she says, stepping away from his warm body.

“I’m not doing an American accent all evening,” Trevor says, answering her question. “My accent is fucking faint, okay?”

“Fine. Just try to cut down on the ‘eh’s if you can,” Morgana says, a wicked smile threatening the corner of her mouth. Trevor growls at her but doesn’t act on it as she pulls his shirt off the hanger. “I presume you know what one of these is.”

“Give that here,” he mutters, snatching it and putting it on quickly. It’s a perfect fit, and Morgana is already regretting her decision to put Trevor in a suit; it might just be the very end of her. “I’m fine with the pants too, before you ask.”

Morgana giggles, turning to the mirror in her room to start fiddling with her hair. She watches Trevor’s reflection step into the trousers, pulling them up before fastening them, tucking his shirt in. He does a turn, Morgana moving out of the way so he can see his reflection. “Jesus, could they hug my ass any fucking tighter?” Trevor asks, and Morgana bites her lip while staring at said ass. “Oh, is that a good thing?” Trevor teases.

“Cummerbund,” Morgana says quickly, reaching for the black sash.

“Cummer _what_?”

Morgana loops her arms around Trevor’s waist, trying to blindly find the clasp behind his back while her face is all but pressed against his stomach. Finally, it catches, but not before one of Trevor’s hands has begun stroking through her hair. “Um, Trevor?” she asks, before he pulls her upright again, tight against his body. She closes her eyes and sighs, enjoying the solid warmth of his chest against hers. Not quite short enough to tuck her head under Trevor’s chin, she simply lays her head on his shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful,” Trevor says softly in her ear, and Morgana smiles, unseen by Trevor as her face is turned away from him. She could stay like this for a long time.

_Knock knock_.

“For fuck’s sakes,” Trevor says, reluctantly releasing Morgana. “I’m guessing that’s the pizza?”

“Yeah,” Morgana says, exhaling shakily. “You better go get it.”

Trevor disappears back into the lounge, Morgana taking a moment to compose herself by hanging up Trevor’s suit jacket over her closet door, next to her dress, still in its dry-cleaning bag. If Trevor thought she was beautiful now... she couldn’t imagine what he would think once he saw her in the dress.

Once the door shuts again, Morgana heads through into the kitchen, grabbing their wine glasses and the wine from the fridge to take into the lounge. Hers is already empty, so she fills it once more. “For the love of God,” she says as she sits on the sofa next to Trevor, “please don’t get any down your shirt. It costs at least a thousand dollars.”

Trevor snorts, opening the pizza box and setting it down on the coffee table. He grabs a slice of pizza, just managing to catch a stray dribble of cheese before it hits his shirt. “Jesus Christ,” Morgana mutters, before taking her own slice out of the box.

They eat mostly in silence, Trevor seemingly enraptured by the cartoon on the television, their thighs and upper arms touching but nothing being done about it. Morgana eventually gets up, leaving her last slice to Trevor, to go collect her makeup bag from her room. She sits down again with a mirror standing on the sofa between her knees.

“You don’t need all of that makeup,” Trevor says eventually, after watching her do her additional contouring. “I mean, you’re hardly ugly.”

Morgana laughs. “Thanks.” She continues applying her eye makeup, going for a look that will accentuate her light green eyes underneath her mask. Eventually she stands up, looking out of the window to see the shadows getting longer. She checks the time. “Right. I need to brush my teeth - you do too - then I need to get dressed, put on some lippy, and do something with my hair. Then we’re set.”

She heads into the bathroom, pulling a spare toothbrush out of the cabinet for Trevor. “Trevor, you’re not getting out of this,” she calls, smiling to herself when she hears him grumble and get up from the sofa. He joins her in the bathroom, and she squeezes toothpaste onto both of their toothbrushes. “You’ve done this before, right?” she teases.

“Fuck off,” he says around his toothbrush, and so begins the most surreal moment of Morgana’s life so far. She watches her and Trevor brushing their teeth together in the mirror, an image of near perfect domesticity, recalling that she only met the man five days ago and had initially been repulsed by him. And now? Now, she didn’t quite know how she felt, but for the majority of the time, it wasn’t repulsion.

Until Trevor spits into the sink, and Morgana sees the colour of it. “Ewww,” she says around her toothbrush, before she spits too. She rinses it all away. “That’s fucking gross.”

“Look, it’s been a _long_ time since anyone bothered to help me take care of myself, alright?” Trevor shoots back. Morgana softens, rinsing before putting her toothbrush away, drying her mouth gently on a towel.

“C’mon,” she says, taking Trevor gently by the hand, leading him through the house. “You still need your bow tie.”

Once in Morgana’s bedroom again, she takes the black bow tie from where it had been sat in the breast pocket of the suit jacket, carefully putting it around Trevor’s neck. Thankfully, his _CUT HERE_ tattoo is suitably covered by the collar of his shirt. “Try not to fiddle with this during the night,” she says, tying the knot. “My guests normally know how to tie a bow tie, so it’ll look out of sorts if you’re stood there unable to redo it.”

“Gee, _thanks_ ,” Trevor drawls. “That’s made me feel so much better about this whole thing.”

“Hey,” Morgana says softly. She adjust the bow tie, and then steps back. “I’m just as nervous as you are.”

“I never said I was _nervous_ ,” Trevor replies. “I just like to have some kind of weapon on me. Or be high, actually, and tonight I’m neither of those.”

“You got me, though,” Morgana says, and that makes Trevor smile. “Right. I need to get dressed. Turn around.”

“Are you serious?” Trevor asks, and Morgana folds her arms over her chest in answer. “You’re cruel,” Trevor says, defeated, before he does as he’s told. “You better hurry up, before I get bored and turn right back around again.”

Morgana undoes her robe and puts it on the bed, before wrestling the dress out of the dry cleaning bag. “You’ve got some great wallpaper goin’ on here,” Trevor says, humming and ahhing as if he’s an interior designer. “Yup, real nice.”

“Are you ever _not_ annoying?” Morgana asks, pulling the dress off its hanger and pooling it on the floor to step into it. She pulls it up over her body, the fit perfect, and makes sure to pull the one shoulder strap over her left shoulder. Doing up the concealed zip in the side of the dress, she takes a breath in, stepping into her high heels before smoothing down her [dress](https://41.media.tumblr.com/6c60dd2169ad4864ca81599a742f1fea/tumblr_nxcbt4CHlL1r3uffdo10_400.jpg). “Okay, you can look now.”

“Finally,” Trevor says before he turns around. His eyes go comically wide as they land on the floor length lace gown, or perhaps at the contrast between Morgana’s flawless pale skin and the bright red of the flowers covering her body. It hugs her figure gloriously, and Trevor steps forward with his hands outstretched, jaw hanging a little slack. “Wow.”

“Good wow or bad wow?” Morgana says, posing. A thigh high split in the material reveals one of her long legs. Trevor steps forward again, and she realises that they’re the same height now that she’s in her shoes. She catches the scent of his cologne as one of his hands lands on her scantily-clad hip.

“Hmm,” he says, leaning in close enough that their foreheads touch. “I’d say, a good wow for a _bad_ girl,” Trevor murmurs, before he presses his lips to Morgana’s. Her eyes flutter shut and her hands instinctively move to grip Trevor’s shirt, before she realises what she’s doing.

“No,” she says, stealing a quick peck before she pulls away fully. “No, we’re... going to be late.”

“Only fashionably late,” Trevor murmurs, kissing the corner of her mouth as she begins to turn away. She laughs, pushing him away.

“Come on. I’ll let you drive my car if you can stop touching me for all of five minutes,” Morgana says.

“Deal,” Trevor says. “But that’s five minutes _exactly_. We’re not finished here.” He motions between them before he steps backwards to sit down on the bed, ripping open the packaging of his new socks. “You gonna tell me these are a thousand dollars too? Some Chinese kid handstitched these with the finest silk known to man?”

“I’m sure she went to _Checkout!_ especially to get them,” Morgana says, standing at her dresser to change her earrings. She sweeps her hair back off her face with a few pins to make room for the mask, still letting it tumble down her back in a simple hairstyle. Tonight, she wants the dress to speak for itself.

“Hey, don’t _knock_ discount stores, Princess. They’re my favourite.”

“Of course,” she smiles. She turns towards the bed, and the mask boxes still sat on it. She pulls out her tiny mask, turning back to the mirror to fit it on her face. “What do you think?” she asks, looking towards Trevor. “Do you think they’ll recognise me?”

Trevor looks up from finishing tying his shoes, and he bursts out laughing. “Oh yeah. _Real_ inconspicuous. I mean, I can’t see your face at _all_.”

“Don’t speak too soon,” Morgana says, opening the other box sat on the bed.

Trevor stares at it for a moment. “Haha. Good joke. I’m not wearing that.” He picks it up as if it’s infected with a deadly disease, revealing the gloves underneath it. “Gloves, too? Fuck, you go all out don’t you?”

“It’s either that, heavy foundation, or being instantly killed by Arthur,” Morgana says with a shrug, turning back to the mirror to do her lip liner, and then her lipstick. Trevor mutters something under his breath as he puts the gloves on, twisting his hands around to look at them.

“I’m not driving wearing this thing,” Trevor says, and Morgana smacks her lips together, lipstick in place. His tone carries a hint of defeat to it, and it makes her smile a little.

“I didn’t say you had to,” she says. Trevor stands up and she helps him into his jacket, before stepping back to look him up and down. “You should make an effort more often. You look...”

“Good enough to eat?” Trevor asks lowly, raising his eyebrows.

Morgana purses her lips, before she grins. “Ask me that once I’ve had some champagne,” she says, and Trevor groans.

“ _Again_ with the whole cocktease thing. I’m gonna lose my patience soon, _Princess_ ,” Trevor threatens, voice gravelly. Morgana pauses for a moment, as Trevor takes his mask through into the lounge. Would Trevor do that? Simply get tired of waiting for Morgana to make her mind up and just make it happen?

Morgana doesn’t doubt it for a second, and that makes them both dangerous.

She grabs her clutch off the side, putting her mascara in it and snapping it shut. “Let’s go,” she says as she walks into the lounge, high heels clunking against the floorboards. She pulls her car key off the ring, throws it to Trevor. He catches it. “Pull the car up outside, I can’t go traipsing down the street like this.”

“That’s it? Don’t I need cash or ID or something?”

“Trevor,” Morgana deadpans. “Look who you’re going with,” she says, gesturing her hands to her face and her body. “You think I need tickets to go places? Money to buy drinks?”

“Alright, fuck, I get the point,” Trevor says, before he opens the door and storms outside. The sun has nearly set now, and if Morgana looked out of the kitchen window, she’d see Los Santos starting to light up for the night. Instead, she steps out of the front door, locking it and turning towards the street to hear tyres squealing.

“Jesus wept,” she mutters to herself, the noise only getting louder. Finally her Carbonizzare zips into view, skidding to a halt in a cloud of tire smoke.

Trevor grins out of his window, honking the horn twice. “They really have a standard for hookers around here,” he calls. Morgana flips him the bird angrily, and he keeps laughing, ducking his head back inside the window.

Morgana walks around the back of her car to the passenger door, tapping the body of it as she does so. “I’m sorry for this,” she whispers to her beloved car before she opens the door and daintily gets in, making sure her dress isn’t caught in the door as she slams it shut. “The Gentry please, driver,” she mocks. “And step on it.”

“You’re gonna regret saying that,” Trevor warns, before Morgana is thrown back in her seat as the car lurches forward. The engine screams as Trevor runs not one red light but two in succession, cutting up traffic and narrowly avoiding being t-boned.

“Trevor!” Morgana screams. “I want to get there in one fucking piece!”

Trevor throws one hand in the air. “Fine, fine.” They ease onto one of the wide Vinewood boulevards at a slightly slower speed. “She’s a real beauty though. Would love to run her up and down my airfield some time.”

Morgana smiles at that. “I’d like that. Little track day of our own.” She watches the buildings passing from outside the window, people going about their evenings in their ordinary little lives. The Gentry comes into view, and an Up-and-Atom comes up on their right. “Park it here. I’m not giving it to the valet; if Arthur has any say in it, I won’t have it back.”

Trevor pulls over to the side of the road in front of the burger joint, killing the engine. On a whim, Morgana reaches over and takes his hand, squeezing it. “You ready?”

Trevor looks down at their joined hands, and then up at Morgana’s smiling face. “Yeah, I guess. Mikey and Franklin have got our back anyway. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Morgana pauses for a moment. “We could die?”

“Eh, not what I was thinking of,” Trevor says, squeezing Morgana’s fingers before letting go of them. “Let’s go.” Morgana hands him his mask, and he fixes it over his head. He looks completely unrecognisable.

Once they’re both out of the car, Morgana puts her arm through Trevor’s, holding onto his forearm as they walk towards the hotel. Already, Morgana can see the flashing of paparazzi cameras, and they still have an intersection to cross. “Remember. Try not to draw attention to yourself. Deflect it onto me if you need to.”

“Attention whore,” Trevor mutters under his breath.

“I mean it,” she whispers back, before flashing a broad smile at someone waving at her as they cross the road, the paparazzi beginning to cotton on to her presence. “I know these people and how to work them. I’m not the one with a cover story tonight.”

“And what’s my cover story then?” Trevor hisses, as they walk onto the paparazzi-filled forecourt of the hotel. “Maybe we should’ve worked this out before I got here?”

“Your name’s Tony,” Morgana murmurs, and Trevor groans from under his mask. “You’re a businessman from out of state.”

“That works,” Trevor agrees, before he falls silent. There’s a small red carpet area set up, and Morgana releases Trevor’s arm to go pose for photographs. She keeps an eye on him over the heads of dozens of photographers calling her name and vying for her attention, as she flashes fake smile after fake smile. She waves before she moves out of the area, only feeling at ease again when her arm is linked through Trevor’s once more.

“It’s going to be a long night,” she mutters.

“Yeah,” Trevor says. “No kidding.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh we're having a good time, we're having a ball...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again this chapter runs on straight away from the last chapter! Enjoy!

Arthur watches Morgana from the balcony of the main ballroom, a story above the crowded driveway of the hotel. “Bright red dress, barely even wearing a mask.”

“It’s like she wants you to know that she’s here,” Leon says quietly from his side. Arthur glares at him for a moment, before looking out of the window again.

“Eyes on her plus one,” he says. Leon looks over the balcony for a moment before he turns his back, not wanting to arouse suspicion.

“The one with the huge mask?” Leon asks. Arthur turns away from the balcony and they both begin to walk back towards the main ballroom.

“She definitely wants to be seen, but he doesn’t. I wonder why,” Arthur muses, before he fiddles with his bow tie for the moment, and then his simple black mask, covering about as much of his face as Morgana’s does. His mask however is on a stick, and he lowers it as soon as he’s not in view of the window anymore. “Any chatter on the net?”

Leon subtly adjusts his earpiece behind his mask. “Gwaine and Perce saying that they haven’t seen her car through the valet...” Leon pauses, staring up at the ceiling for a moment. “And that’s Lance now saying that she’s just coming through reception. Smiling, apparently.”

“I’ll give her something to smile about,” Arthur says darkly. He leads the way back into the ballroom, grabbing a glass of champagne as he goes. Leon easily keeps pace at his side. “I’m going to work the room for a while. I need to speak to Madrazo about some coke shipments,” Arthur mutters to Leon. “Keep an eye on her for me.”

Leon nods, and leaves Arthur alone. Over the next half hour, Arthur talks to various influential men and women of Los Santos, not having to introduce himself too often because he’s given up with his mask completely, but having to ask for the names of who he’s speaking to more often than he’d like. However, his eyes are constantly drawn to Morgana, who mostly stays with her guest in the middle of the ballroom, surrounded by people. Perhaps she thinks that Arthur won’t spot her that way; the thought makes him laugh. He closes up his current conversation quickly, already bored of the babbling businessman in front of him, before he makes his way towards the centre of the ballroom.

As he approaches Morgana, Leon turns and smiles to him, his white _Phantom of the Opera_ mask not uncommon at this party. “Arthur, what a surprise,” Leon says, and Arthur wants to punch that smug look off his face. He buries the thought. “I was just talking to Morgana and Tony here about your time in the military.”

_Tony_. Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Only a couple of years when I was young. For Queen and country and all that tosh,” he says, quickly dismissing the subject. Morgana, the wretch, smiles.

“Until you were dishonourably discharged for punching your commanding officer in the face,” she sneers, and her guest laughs. Arthur watches Tony’s hand creep further around Morgana’s hip, almost towards her arse, and that stokes a fire deep within Arthur.

“Morgana, how lovely it is to see you,” Arthur deadpans. He takes her hand and kisses it, looking into her cold green eyes as he does so. He turns to Tony. “I assume your Morgana’s latest victim,” he grins, pleased with his _double entendre_. He extends his hand towards Morgana’s guest, and Tony shakes it with a gloved hand and a firm grip.

“Ain’t anythin’ wrong with that,” the man says in a thick Southern accent (as far as Arthur can tell, with his limited knowledge of anything American besides Los Santos). The man smacks Morgana’s arse lightly with that comment, earning a gasp of surprise from the lady in question and a glare from Arthur.

“Well, there will be, if you keep touching my sister like that,” Arthur warns.

Morgana opens her mouth, but Tony beats her to it. “Oh, _shit_ ,” he drawls. “Arthur, as in Arthur Pendragon? Wow, what an honour sir,” Tony says, and Arthur stares at his mask, as if he can work out the man underneath it. “I promise, Morgana here is safe in my hands.”

“Quite,” Arthur says, before turning to Morgana. Dancing couples move around their little group, and Leon grabs two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. He passes one to Arthur. “Morgana. I’ve missed you this week,” he says, getting straight to business.

Morgana tips her chin up, and Arthur wants to roll his eyes. Ever since he’s known her, all she’s ever done is pretend she’s above every situation she finds herself in. “I wasn’t needed in the company’s operations,” she sneers, and Arthur has no doubts quite which side of the company she’s referring to. “So I took a little holiday.”

“Well, that holiday needs to end,” Arthur says, and he grips Morgana’s wrist. She tries to pull away, but suddenly Merlin and Lance are looming around her. Tony makes to move forward, but Leon’s hand on his chest stops him. “You need to come back to Los Santos,” Arthur says, digging his fingers into Morgana’s pale skin.

“And if I don’t?” Morgana asks, defiant to her last breath.

“Then our arrangement ends,” Arthur says, smiling cruelly. Morgana’s eyes widen minutely under her mask. “And you become our enemy. Fair game.”

“You wouldn’t,” Morgana whispers, barely heard over the buzz of the ballroom and the music of the string quartet playing in the background. Arthur’s world has narrowed to this tiny circle of people.

“I would, and you know that.” Arthur lets Morgana pull her wrist free this time when she tries again. “I’ll see you in the office by Monday, or next time I see you, it’ll be down the barrel of a gun.”

Morgana smiles, red lips stretched across her face in something dangerously close to a smirk. “See you soon, brother,” Morgana says, before she takes Tony’s arm and turns away from Arthur. Lance and Merlin are blocking her way, and she greets them both coolly, before they part and allow them to disappear in the crowd.

“Don’t let her out of your _sight_ ,” Arthur hisses to Lance, before he disappears with Merlin. He turns to Leon. “I’m going to take a piss. When I come back, I want _confirmation_ from Gwaine that he’s located her car and has eyes on it. Tell him that if he even _thinks_ of doing a line to take the edge off, his head will roll.”

Arthur storms away for a piss and a strong drink, in that order.

*

“Let me see your hand.”

“T, it’s _fine_ ,” Morgana says, not daring to look over her shoulder to see if any of the Pendragon family are watching her. Trevor takes her hand anyway, looking at her red wrist. The leather of his gloves is cool against her skin.

“He hurt you,” he growls, rubbing his gloved fingers over the skin. It makes Morgana feel marginally better, although she mostly feels drained from the ordeal.

“Let it go, T,” she says, sighing. “Can we dance? I need to take my mind off it all for a while.”

Trevor laughs loudly, a few people in their vicinity turning to look at him. “Sweetheart, you think that I can dance?”

“Fine. Just hold me, or something, Jesus,” Morgana mutters, before she lays her head against Trevor’s shoulder. The music shifts, changing from an upbeat dance number to something slower. Trevor hesitates for a moment before he wraps her in his arms, pressing his body close to hers in a tight embrace. They sway side to side, a lackluster attempt at dancing. Morgana looks around the room, noticing that a surprising amount of the other couples are in similar positions.

“I didn’t think you’d be so _needy_ ,” Trevor mutters, and Morgana closes her eyes for a moment, breathing in the cologne she’d doused him with, a scent that has very rapidly become associated with Trevor and everything between them.

“I didn’t think you’d be so opposed to having my body pressed against yours,” Morgana argues back weakly. She can feel Trevor’s gloved fingers playing with her hair.

“ _Touché_ ,” he says, falling silent for a moment. Morgana is glad that she can see his eyes through his mask; without the lines of wear and scars that the rest of his face carries, he looks almost youthful.

She glances over Trevor’s shoulder to see Arthur staring at them from the bar, raised slightly above the main space of the ballroom. “Don’t turn or move drastically,” she says, averting her eyes from her step-brother, “but Arthur’s watching us.”

“He’s only jealous,” Trevor says, and the words sting. He rubs his hand up and down her back almost as if he knows that he cut to the bone.

“I’m never like this with the men I bring to functions,” Morgana explains quietly, still swaying to the music. She can feel the eyes of the Los Santos elite around her on her body. “This will make you a target. He won’t stop now, T,” she says, and she swallows down the emotion building in her chest. “Fuck, I need a cigarette.”

Trevor’s voice rises. “You smoke?”

“When I’m stressed, or just really pissed off with Arthur,” Morgana says. The champagne has made her drowsy, she could probably fall asleep like this on Trevor’s shoulder. “I used to smoke a lot back in Dublin, when I was a kid.”

“You still _are_ a kid,” Trevor drawls.

Morgana smiles a little sadly. “I’m twenty-four,” she protests weakly. “Big girl now.” She presses further into Trevor’s body, warm through the layers of his tuxedo.

“Christ, I’m gonna need a cigarette too if you’re being this clingy,” Trevor says, stepping out of the embrace, but putting his gloved hand in Morgana’s. “C’mon.”

They head towards the doors out to the courtyard, the designated smoking area for the evening. It’s littered with tables, chairs, and many guests smoking. “Have you even got any cigarettes?” Morgana asks once they’re out in the fresh air. She shivers for a moment, the cool evening a stark contrast to the stuffy ballroom.

“I thought you said you were the woman who could get whatever she wanted?” Trevor asks, and it sounds like a dare. Morgana grins, bad mood momentarily forgotten.

“Watch and learn,” she says sultrily. She walks over to a young man wearing a mask adorned with peacock feathers, currently smoking a cigarette. “Excuse me, could I have a cigarette?” she asks, in her most flirtatious voice.

The man scoffs at her. “Pretty lil’ thing like you shouldn’t be smoking,” he says before he turns away. Morgana looks back to Trevor, mortified, with the latter sniggering at her. She walks back towards her date, hanging her head in shame.

“Nice work!” Trevor says enthusiastically, clapping her on the back.

“Fuck off,” she mutters.

“Yeah, fuck off T,” says a voice, and Morgana looks over her shoulder to see Michael in a tuxedo, with Franklin in tow, neither of them wearing masks. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket to withdraw a carton of cigarettes, offering one to Morgana. “A true gentleman should let a lady smoke if she wants.”

“Fuck off with your film quote shit, _M_ ,” Trevor says as Morgana takes a cigarette, before Trevor snatches one which clearly had not been offered to him. He twists his mask slightly to the side and uses his own lighter to light his cigarette, whereas Morgana allows Michael to light hers.

“It’s good to see you both,” Morgana says after taking a drag, the smoke tumbling from her red-stained lips as she does so. “This way,” she says, leading them over to a more secluded part of the courtyard, aware of all the possible hiding spaces for Arthur or one of his cronies. “How’s it going?” she asks conspiratorially.

“Been a few guys hangin’ ‘round your car,” Franklin says in a hushed voice. “A guy about six feet tall and six feet wide, and a guy with long hair and a loud laugh.”

“That’s Percy and Gwaine,” Morgana says immediately. “They’re going to follow me when I leave, I bet. Arthur’s practically threatened to kill me already.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _practically_ ,” Trevor chips in. “It was pretty explicit.”

“Yeah, thanks T,” Michael says, “that’s really gonna calm your girl down, isn’t it?”

Trevor balks. “ _My_ girl?” Morgana wishes she could see his expression under his mask.

Franklin laughs, and he and Michael exchange an amused look. “What kinda bodyguards would we be if we hadn’t been watchin’ you two? You looked pretty cozy to me, dawg.”

Morgana blushes a little, shivering again as a breeze rolls through the courtyard. She rubs her hands up and down her bare arms. “Here, take my jacket,” Michael says, starting to take his off.

“No, she’ll take _mine_ ,” Trevor says, shucking his much faster than Michael does and practically throwing it over Morgana’s shoulders.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. Michael laughs loudly as he puts his jacket back on; Trevor seethes, and Franklin looks over his shoulder. “Alright, we’re attracting attention now, thanks to your alpha male bullshit,” she says, looking between Trevor and Michael. She takes another drag of her cigarette. “Any more information?”

“Nothing yet,” Michael says, turning to survey the crowd around them before facing the group again. “We’ve got a getaway car if we need to get you out of here sharpish. Might have to create a distraction...” His words falter as he looks to Franklin, who shakes his head.

“Nah, homie, I ain’t bein’ your bait. I’m sick of white dudes shootin’ at me,” he says quickly, and Michael throws his hands up in the air, before he clamps one down on Franklin’s shoulder.

“Would I ever turn my back on you, kid?” he asks Franklin earnestly.

Franklin sighs. “Fine. What crazy plan is it this time?”

Michael turns to Morgana. “When you’re ready to leave, just start walking down towards your car. Ideally, F would be waiting in it, best getaway driver in the whole of San Andreas, but if they’re watching the car, that’s a no go. Instead, F here will pull up in our getaway car right at the moment you were gonna get in your car, you guys will get in, and we’re away.”

“That’s it?” Morgana asks. “Percy’s a fucking good driver, and he’ll be in a Cheetah.”

Franklin shakes his head with a smile on his face, and Michael laughs. “Oh, kid,” he says.

Morgana rolls her eyes, taking a final drag of her cigarette before dropping it to the ground, crushing it with her shoe. Trevor is relatively quiet at her side. “You better get gone, you two,” she says, shooing them away with her hands before pulling Trevor’s jacket tighter around her shoulders. “But thank you.”

“Hey, anything for a friend,” Michael says. Trevor looks up at that, and the two of them share eye contact for a couple of moments, before Michael and Franklin turn and leave.

“You two have really got to sort your lives out,” Morgana says to Trevor in a light tease.

Trevor throws the stub of his cigarette onto the floor, letting it burn itself out naturally. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, looking Morgana up and down, ensuring his mask is square on his face again. “You alright now?”

“I’m fine,” she says, smiling. “You don’t have to prove yourself around me, or anything. I’m not attracted to Michael. He’s married, for one.”

Trevor laughs darkly. “I bet that’s never stopped you before, and I know it ain’t ever stopped him either.”

Morgana raises her eyebrows at Trevor. “Remember that chat we had about me being _forced_ to sleep with people? Arthur hardly has high morals.”

“Yeah, and remember when I said I didn’t give a fuck about what Arthur thinks?” Trevor says. He steps into Morgana’s personal space, putting his hands on her shoulders. With his mask on, he looks even more intimidating than usual. “We’re gonna fucking kill him, Morgs,” he says quietly, voice scraping the lower end of his register. Morgana inhales slightly. “I’m gonna rip his head from his body and shove it up his fucking ass for all the shit he’s done to you, and I’ll still be angry. No one will ever, _ever_ , fuck you around like that again. Got that?” 

Morgana nods, speechless for a moment. “Yeah,” she says eventually, and she starts to smile. “Yeah. That’s grand.”

Trevor huffs out a laugh. “Let’s go back inside. I want my jacket back.”

“So romantic,” Morgana mutters sarcastically under her breath, but when Trevor’s hand sneaks around onto her hip, she doesn’t mind one bit.

*

A few glasses of Scotch later, and Arthur doesn’t feel any better about himself. He feels positively miserable as he watches Morgana attempt to coax Tony into dancing with limited success, but even from his vantage point by the bar, he can still see the grin that periodically spreads across Morgana’s face. She’s spent the last God only knows how many hours flicking off attention from other guests like unwanted flies, entirely focussed on the masked man beside her.

Arthur’s never seen her so happy, and that’s never made him so angry before.

As if on cue, Leon materialises at his side. ”It’s getting close to turn-out time,” Leon says. “Gwaine and Percy are in place in the Cheetah, ready to tail her to wherever she’s going.”

“Good,” Arthur says, swirling his whiskey around his glass. Perhaps he slurs his words a little, because Leon takes the glass from his fingers and puts it down on the bar. Arthur doesn’t mind, for once.

“We’ll get her, Arthur,” Leon says with total determination, and Arthur is convinced that they will. He nods, before dismissing Leon with a wave of his hand.

*

“I actually had quite a nice time tonight,” Morgana says with a smile as they walk through the crowd of guests towards the door, most of them drunker than they are. Trevor had barely touched the alcohol after their altercation with Arthur.

Trevor grunts. “I’m glad someone did.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I was worryin’ all fuckin’ night that something was going to happen to you, alright? For fuck’s sakes,” he says, and Morgana frowns, stopping Trevor and cupping his jaw underneath his mask.

“I... I really appreciate--”

“Morgana!”

Morgana would recognise that voice anywhere. She turns towards Merlin, who is shoving his way through the crowd towards her, closely pursued by Lance. Instantly, Trevor tries to shield her, but Morgana stops him for the moment. “Merlin,” she says softly in greeting.

Merlin looks almost unrecognisable in a tuxedo; he’s clean shaven, and his eyes aren’t too bloodshot. The only things that give his troubled existence away are the scabs and scratches littered across his face. “Morgana. I just... wanted to say. You looked grand tonight.”

Morgana smiles sadly, dropping Trevor’s hand for a moment. Sometimes, she wishes that the last ten years hadn’t happened, that maybe they would’ve kept on going in Dublin, starting a family of their own. There was too much space between them now, though, an ocean neither of them would ever be able to cross to reach the distant shore. “Thank you. That’s very kind,” Morgana says warmly. She looks to the man hovering over Merlin’s shoulder. “Lance,” she says coolly, nodding.

“We need to go, Merlin,” Lance says urgently, starting to pull at the younger man. He beams once, carefree, before Lance pulls him back into the throng of guests once more.

Trevor, wisely, doesn’t say anything until they’re outside of the hotel grounds and walking towards the car, streetlights illuminating the empty streets. He offers Morgana his jacket once more, which she politely declines. Seconds later, Trevor’s cell phone begins to ring noisily.

“M,” he says when he picks up. Morgana instantly becomes more alert, taking Trevor’s arm as she walks along. “Yeah, we can see it now... What? Are you serious? For fuck’s... fine. Alright, alright. In a minute.” Trevor hangs up, pocketing his phone again. “We’re gonna hail a cab.”

“ _What_?” Morgana nearly screeches, before Trevor shushes her.

“Just follow my lead, alright?” Trevor says as they approach Morgana’s car. He stumbles down the curb towards the car, Morgana attempting to catch him. “Shit!” he says loudly in that stupid Southern accent of his. “I’m fucking _wasted_. I can’t drive in this state.” He gets the key out of his jacket, only to drop it. He clumsily scoops it off the asphalt.

Morgana has a lightbulb moment. “Maybe we should hail a cab,” she says just as loudly, looking down the street away from the hotel to see - lo and behold - a cab idling down the curb. Before she even manages to raise her hand in the air, the taxi rapidly accelerates towards them, screeching to a stop by the side of Morgana’s Carbonizzare.

Sure enough, Franklin is sat behind the wheel, with Michael in the passenger seat, a Micro SMG laid across his lap. “Hurry up and get in,” Michael says, before winding the window up. Morgana and Trevor don’t need asking twice, and as soon as they’re inside, Trevor rips off his mask as Franklin begins to speed away, blending into the other traffic.

“God, that thing’s been pissin’ me off all night,” Trevor groans, rubbing one hand over his face. Morgana takes hers off as well, putting it in her clutch.

She looks over her shoulder to see a red sports car following them. “Surprise surprise, they’re following us,” she tells the others. “And I’m not even going to ask how you managed to acquire a taxi.”

“All legal, baby,” Michael says, and Morgana pretends to not notice Trevor bristling at her side. “Frankie here owns the Downtown Cab Company.”

“Yup, all legit,” Franklin says. “‘Cept I added a couple of... _modifications_ to this particular vehicle.” He nods his head to Michael. “Just tell me when, M.”

Michael keeps looking over his shoulder, between Morgana and Trevor out of the rear window. “Not yet, stay subtle. I’m thinkin’ we head down towards Davis; Franklin, you know those streets like the back of your hand. No point trying to outrun a supercar on a freeway or anything.”

“Good idea,” Morgana nods. “Percy’s driving, and Gwaine will be too worried about pleasing Arthur to think about using any underhand tactics like he normally does.” The car starts heading south through Downtown. “I doubt they’ve even set foot in South LS before, except for the occasional drug deal.”

“That’s what we do best,” Franklin says, before concentrating on the road.

“We’ll lose them, switch you to another vehicle, then get you the fuck out of downtown,” Michael explains. “Franklin’s got a guy who will pose as a car thief in a few hours, in case they’re still watching your car, he’ll grab it and again, escape.”

“He might haveta bust the window to make it look real, but I’ll get that fixed up for you,” Franklin says.

“Then we’ll clean up the mess,” Michael says. Morgana is pretty convinced.

“Just don’t kill Gwaine or Percy, okay?” Morgana asks, a little nervous.

Trevor suddenly takes an interest. “Why not? You _want_ your brother and his security to outnumber us when we eventually do our thing? Kill us before we even get started? You need to get off your high horse, missy.”

“Oh, fuck _off_ ,” Morgana says. “I don’t want to kill them because _then_ Arthur will know I’m working with people, people who have weapons and who equate to manpower. A force to be reckoned with. Did you think of that?”

Michael laughs lowly. “Ho ho, T. It’s about time you shacked up with someone willing to call you out on your arrogant bullshit.”

Trevor growls. “Because you know all about arrogance and bullshit, _Mikey_. Takes one to know one.”

“Chill the fuck out, y’all,” Franklin says. Morgana looks out of the window to see a run-down part of the city she hadn’t seen in years. It reminds her of Dublin, in a weird way.

Michael cocks his gun. “It’s time.”

Morgana glances over her shoulder to see Gwaine and Percy, still right behind. “Do it,” she says, and Franklin floors it, taking two quick right turns that send Morgana flying into Trevor. “Sorry,” she says. Trevor wraps his arms around her tightly as the rear window shatters with a gunshot, spraying them both with glass. “Fucking hell!” she shouts, as Trevor shoves her down across the back seat, covering her body with his own. “Alright, forget what I said about not killing them.”

Michael has a balaclava on now, and is spraying the pursuing car liberally with rounds whilst practically hanging out of his window. “‘M goin’ left,” Franklin calls, Michael ducking inside for a moment to avoid being battered by a wall as Franklin oversteers. They race through alleys and narrow passageways, the streetlights throwing shadows across the interior of the cab as they speed under them. Another burst of gunfire riddles the back of the taxi, before there’s an almighty crash.

Morgana struggles to sit upright with Trevor’s weight on her, but he holds her firm. She tries again and he lets her up this time. Out of the rear window, she can see a sports car crashed into an electricity pole, smoke pouring from under the hood. They turn a corner, and the scene disappears from view.

“That’s it,” Michael says. Franklin slows the car down as he turns onto a suburban street, as if the last five minutes of bullets and car chases didn’t just happen. “We need to ditch this car.”

“Garage is just up here,” Franklin says. “Y’all alright?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “I’m good.” He looks to Morgana and Trevor.

“Never been better, Mikey,” Trevor says, laughing a little nervously after it. Michael looks to Morgana.

“I’m alright. I just... do you think they died?” Morgana asks, brushing tiny shards of glass from her dress and her hair.

Michael laughs for a moment. “I doubt it. Well, perhaps. I thought you didn’t care about those guys, anyway.”

“No,” Morgana says, before backtracking. “Well, I’ve spent a lot of time with them over the years. Percy can be quite sweet, and Gwaine... well, he’s fine when he’s sober. But it’s not them I have problems with, it’s Arthur.”

“We’re gonna have to go through them to get to Arthur, sugar,” Trevor says. “It’s like every video game ever.”

Morgana stares at Trevor for a beat, before Franklin pulls up outside a roll-up door. “We’re here.”

They all get out of the car, and it’s late enough that the sky is beginning to turn light out in the east. The city is nearly silent at this hour, and they all look at each other for a moment. “This is it,” Michael says eventually.

Trevor snorts. “You and your fuckin’ Vinewood quotes,” he says, before he sobers up. “Thanks for your help. Both of you. I know I don’t say that enough--”

“Dude, you never say it at all.”

“--but I _mean_ it this time, alright? This time was important,” Trevor finishes, despite Franklin’s interruption. Michael nods after a moment, clapping Trevor on the back. Morgana remains quiet, staring at her shoes, suddenly feeling exhausted.

“Alright, let’s get you two home. Beauty queen here looks like she’s about to fall asleep,” Michael says as Franklin pulls up the shutter of his garage. Michael’s Tailgater is parked inside, and he gets in it quickly to drive it out of the garage. Franklin pulls the shutter down again, this time with Trevor’s help.

“Thanks, man. I gotta ditch this cab, but I’ll see y’all around,” Franklin says. “You got the key for your car?” Trevor hands Franklin the single key. “A’ight. Be safe,” Franklin says, nodding to both Trevor and Morgana as he gets in the taxi and drives away.

Trevor looks at Morgana. “You better take the front seat. I can’t put up with Mikey’s bullshit at this hour.”

Morgana grins devilishly, before she gets in the back. Trevor sighs, and gets in the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. “I’m taking you to your place in Mirror Park for tonight,” Michael says as he pulls onto the road. “I wouldn’t recommend staying in the city for too long, though.”

“How do you know where I live?” Morgana asks, a little worried.

“Lester,” Michael says, and that’s all the explanation Morgana needs.

“Ahhh, _Lester_ ,” Trevor says from the front seat. “How is our socially retarded friend?”

Morgana rolls her eyes from the backseat.

“He’s not bad, and he’ll be _touched_ by your concern, T,” Michael drawls. “He texted me today, actually. Thinks he’ll have the plan ready by tomorrow, wants the whole crew to meet at my house on Monday.”

“That’s a whole _three days away_ ,” Trevor whines.

“Yeah, I’m sure you and your girlfriend will find ways to kill that time,” Michael says, and Morgana detects a bitter tone to his voice.

“Hello? I’m literally right here,” she says from the backseat. “And I’m not his girlfriend.”

“Yeah yeah kid, just remember what I told you,” Michael says. Trevor twists in the front seat to look at Morgana.

“Told you _what_ ,” he deadpans, a frown set deep into his face.

“Nothing,” Morgana says too quickly, and Trevor tries to crawl into the backseat. Michael shoves him heavily back into place before taking a corner.

“Leave the girl _alone_. I think she’s had a traumatic enough time tonight, don’t you? Treat her to something nice, if you can, although knowing you, your idea of a date involves kidnapping a mafioso’s wife.”

“Still here,” Morgana mutters weakly to herself. She looks out of the window at the empty streets, no normal human being having any reason to be out at this time on a Saturday morning. Dawn still threatens on the horizon, and Morgana is ready to just fall into her bed.

When she tunes back into Michael and Trevor’s conversation-cum-argument, they’re discussing the time they spent as exiles from Los Santos. “Do you miss her then?” Michael asks. Morgana pretends that she’s still completely absorbed by everything out of the window.

“Patricia?” Trevor asks in a hushed voice. He glances over his shoulder at Morgana, before turning back to Michael. They’re nearly in Mirror Park now. “Of course not. I’d be fuckin’ insane to still want _her_ after...” Out of the corner of her eye, Morgana sees Trevor jerk his head towards the back seat.

“Hmmm,” Michael says, more to himself than anything else. “Morgana,” he calls, and Morgana pretends to shake herself out of her reverie. “Lester’s good but he ain’t that good. Help me with some directions, will ya?”

“Oh,” she says. “Take a left here, and then it’s the yellow house on the left.” She watches her little house come into view with a smile on her face, and Michael pulls up at the curb. Reaching forward, Morgana puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Thank you _so_ much for tonight. Franklin, too. I’m really happy to be around people who actually know what they’re doing for once.”

Trevor snorts before Michael can reply. “Yeah, right. He’ll turn your back on you at the first opportunity. See ya later, Mikey,” he sneers before he gets out of the car, slamming the door. Morgana watches him walk to the door of the house and then wait, sulking. She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t listen to him,” Michael says. “I’m gonna help you out. You’re a nice girl in a shitty situation, and you deserve better. _Speaking_ of better,” Michael says, looking over to Trevor. Morgana sighs. “Like I said, don’t listen to him. He’s full of shit and meth. Mostly shit.”

“Thanks, Michael,” Morgana says, squeezing his shoulder before getting out of the car; she doesn’t miss his annoyed sigh as she does so. She can hear him driving away in the background as she walks towards Trevor, standing with his arms crossed by the door. She unlocks it and steps inside, but Trevor doesn’t follow. “You gonna stand there and sulk all night?” she asks softly, offering a hand towards Trevor. He grunts and walks inside, shutting the door behind him.

Morgana kicks off her high heels, sighing with relief as she does so. She puts her clutch down on the coffee table, and Trevor ditches his mask there too. “It’s morning, actually,” Trevor says.

“What?” Morgana asks, turning to Trevor. She’s shorter than him again, now, and the height difference comforts her somehow, makes her feel more secure.

“You said _all night_. It’s morning. Like, 6am kind of morning,” Trevor says, undoing his bow tie and throwing it onto the floor. He shrugs out of his jacket too, draping it over the sofa, before his hands go to the back of his cummerbund.

“And what exactly are you doing, stripping in my lounge?” Morgana asks. She can’t help it, she knows she’s flirting again; it’s something to do with Trevor, and the danger that always lingers just under his skin.

“What?” Trevor asks, looking genuinely affronted. “I’m fuckin’ exhausted. I’m getting ready for bed.”

“And who says I’m going to let you in my bed?” Morgana asks. She takes the pins out of her hair, running her hand through it as a slow smile spreads across Trevor’s face.

Trevor closes the gap between them with sure steps, hands going immediately to Morgana’s hips. “Me,” Trevor says.

“You sound pretty sure for someone who hasn’t passed the test yet,” Morgana teases, leaning in to smell Trevor’s neck. There’s a hint of sweat underneath the cologne now, something so _Trevor_ that she’d almost missed it.

“There’s a test? Sounds pretty _strenuous_ ,” Trevor replies slowly.

“Oh yeah, it’s hard work. Sweaty, too,” Morgana says, looking up to Trevor to find his eyes dark. “It’s gonna-- ahh--”

Trevor steps back. “Did you just fuckin’ yawn?”

Morgana stands in shock, her hands covering her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

“Am I that boring?” Trevor asks, sounding hurt.

“No!” Morgana is quick to say. “No, Trev, of course not. It’s just... it’s fucking daylight outside. I’m tired, alright? I’m normally too busy murdering marks to be out partying this late.” She walks her fingers up Trevor’s chest. “We can pick up where we left off when we’re a bit less tired.”

Trevor grunts in exasperation. “ _Fine_. But this counts as me being allowed to sleep in the bed,” he says, walking through into Morgana’s bedroom as he strips off his shirt, dumping it on the way. “ _And_ ,” he says, pausing to turn to Morgana, who nearly crashes into his chest, “you’re going to hold me _all_ through the night.”

Morgana raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Instead, she spends the next few minutes getting ready for bed by wiping her makeup off her face and using the bathroom, trying to ignore the daylight beginning to pour through the windows. She returns to her bedroom to take off the dress, to find Trevor already in her bed. “That’s my side of the bed, y’know.”

Trevor grins, spreading his arms. Morgana tries not to stare too much. “Plenty of room for two, Princess,” he leers. “You need help gettin’ out of that dress?”

Morgana points to Trevor. “Just because I’m gonna get mostly naked, doesn’t mean we’re having sex this side of sleeping.”

“So we’re having sex _later_?” Trevor’s face lights up like a child’s on Christmas Day. Morgana makes a noise of frustration, before she turns away from Trevor and unzips the dress, shimmying out of it. She hangs it up on its hanger, before she turns back to Trevor, crossing the room to grab a t-shirt to sleep in.

“You’re stunning, you know,” Trevor says lowly, as if it’s a secret. Morgana grabs the t-shirt and puts it on, an old e-Cola one from a commercial she did once upon a time, before undoing her bra underneath it, the strapless garment coming away in her hand. “Oh come on, I don’t even get to see the goods?” he whines.

“Move over,” she says, nudging at Trevor’s side with her knee before she slides under the duvet. The light still comes through the curtains, but it’s just dark enough that she could fall asleep, especially with Trevor’s constantly-warm body heating the space underneath the covers. “You’re always so warm,” she mumbles as she snuggles up to Trevor, trying to get comfortable. His hand is heavy against her back, and she feels safe.

“That’s because I’m _hot_ ,” he drawls, and Morgana pinches him lightly. “Ouch.”

“Fuck off,” she murmurs with a smile, eyes already closed. She hears him sigh, can hear his heartbeat steady in his chest. It takes only a few minutes for the exhaustion to take her, and soon enough she falls asleep.

She doesn’t have a single nightmare.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana makes good on her promise, and Arthur plots his revenge...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) I think that's all I need to say! Enjoy!

The room is a little dimmer by midday, with the sun having moved above the house and out of the window’s reach. They’ve moved in their sleep, Trevor now almost curled around Morgana, one hand under her t-shirt and on her right breast, the other arm folded up under his head.

Morgana comes to slowly, the kind of waking up that brings along a pleasant grogginess. Her eyes land on her alarm clock, _11:52_ , and she considers going back to sleep again; Trevor is still heavily snoring behind her. She shifts a little, trying to burrow herself back down into the warmth that is her bed when she feels it: Trevor’s erection pressing insistently into her lower back.

Slowly, she turns over to face him, learning in the process that Trevor appears to be quite a heavy sleeper. There’s no anger or betrayal in the lines of his face as he sleeps, just softness, a man entirely at ease. It makes Morgana smile.

With careful movements, she gets out of bed, making sure that she pulls the covers back down over where she had been lying. She heads to the bathroom to pee and brush her teeth, before she returns to her bedroom with a pint glass of water. Before she gets back into bed, she takes off her t-shirt, leaving her just in her panties as she crawls under the duvet less than carefully.

Trevor smacks his lips in his sleep as Morgana manoeuvres his arm, wrapping it around her as she presses her now bare chest against Trevor’s. Her hand creeps down into Trevor’s boxers to wrap around his dick; despite what he’d claimed, it’s fairly sizeable, a bit wider than they often are but not quite as long; Morgana likes that.

“Trevor,” Morgana sing-songs lowly, moving her hand up and down Trevor’s cock at a teasing pace. It twitches under her touch, filling a little more. “I’m pretty sure you promised me sex.”

Trevor’s body begins to move, and Morgana can tell he’s finally waking up. He cracks open an eyelid, a confused expression on his face. “Alright, what did I take last night,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, not even phrasing it as a question.

Morgana giggles throatily. “Nope, you’re not dreaming, I’m here.”

Trevor’s brow furrows further. “In that case, what did _you_ take last night?”

“Nothing,” she says with a wide smile, before twisting her hand on Trevor’s cock to remind him that it’s still there. His breath hitches.

“But you hate sex. You hate _me_ ,” Trevor says weakly. He sits up in the bed, reaching over Morgana to gulp down some of the water, rinsing his mouth out. He sets the glass back down.

“Nope,” Morgana drawls. “So are you gonna deliver on your promise or what?”

Trevor stares at Morgana for a moment like she’s crazy, before he runs his hand through her dishevelled hair and pulls her close to kiss her. There are no tentative movements this time; from the offset, Trevor dominates her mouth, rolling them so Morgana’s on her back with her head on a pillow. She moves her legs so Trevor can climb between them, and she moans into his mouth when his weight settles above hers.

He breaks the kiss. “You gonna be noisy, Princess? Because that’s fucking sexy if you are.”

Morgana runs her hands over Trevor’s toned shoulders. “I normally have to be so quiet, and I’m normally not with someone I find attractive.”

Trevor growls at that, kissing Morgana once more, a hand moving down to play with her breasts. “Oh sweet Lord,” he says, breaking the kiss to move further down the bed, distracted. He takes one in each hand, as if he’s sizing them up. “These puppies are things of _beauty_. Two of the seven natural wonders of the world,” he says, tone full of awe. He rubs his thumbs over her nipples, and Morgana takes a sharp intake of breath. Pressing her breasts together, Trevor sticks his face into them and Morgana can’t help but laugh, nudging at his side with her knee.

“Not really doin’ your job down there,” Morgana admonishes lightly, giggling.

Trevor looks between her two breasts, weighing each one individually in his hands. “I’m coming back to you two _later_ ,” Trevor says to them, before looking up at Morgana as he crawls down the bed, kicking the duvet off his back as he does so. “Princess here is making demands.”

“I’m not mak-- _fuck_.” Trevor’s fingers brush her pussy over her panties, at this point already pretty damp, and she bites her lip at the sensation.

“God,” Trevor says, pressing his face into Morgana’s crotch and taking a long sniff. Bizarrely, she thinks it’s pretty hot, which is a sure indication that she’s been spending too much time with Trevor. “It’s like this is your first fuckin’ time or something.”

“Might as well be,” Morgana manages to mutter quickly before she holds her breath, Trevor slowly peeling her panties down her long legs. He flings them across the room, and Morgana doesn’t have time to be annoyed because Trevor is between her legs once again.

“God, I love it when girls have a bit of hair down here,” Trevor says, and Morgana feels her face turning red. “It’s so fucking sexy,” he concludes, before he buries his face in her pussy.

“Fuck!” she moans as Trevor’s tongue circles her clit. He takes his time, large hands pushing Morgana’s legs apart so he has better access. Trevor hums to himself as he draws letters over Morgana’s clit, as if this is just one of his daily duties that he has to carry out. “You’re really good,” Morgana breathes, staring up at her ceiling.

Trevor laughs deeply, looking up at Morgana from her crotch. Morgana bites her lip at the sight, wanting to keep it in her memory forever. “Sweetheart, I haven’t even _started_ yet.” He sucks on two of his fingers, and Morgana grips the bedsheets around her in anticipation of what’s to come. She holds her breath as Trevor slowly slides one finger in, the feeling a little foreign.

Which makes Morgana laugh, of all things.

“You okay up there?” Trevor asks, crooking his finger inside Morgana. She melts into the bed a little, giggles subsiding. “Gettin’ distracted?”

“N-no,” Morgana says shakily. “I just... I can’t remember the last time... no, forget it, it’ll kill the mood.”

Trevor pauses, withdrawing his finger. “Well you’ve gone most of the way now, Princess, you might as well finish it off.”

Morgana pokes her toes into Trevor’s side. He grabs her ankles and she shrieks as he drags her down the bed. Trevor climbs off the mattress and settles on his knees on the floor, Morgana’s ass almost at the edge of the bed. “Honesty hour, it’s now or never,” he says, grinning at her from between her legs again. She has the sudden urge to cross them, but she knows Trevor won’t be having any of that.

“I haven’t been fingered in about four years,” Morgana says in a rush. “I had a string of marks who just didn’t bother, and then by that point I felt so shitty about it all that when one of the marks _did_ try, I told him not to worry.”

“Sooo...” Trevor drawls. “That would probably put your last time of being eaten out some time in... hmm, 2007?”

Morgana snorts. “Yeah, something like that.”

“That is _tragic_.” Trevor gives Morgana’s pussy a long lick using the flat of his tongue, and Morgana squirms at the sensation. He then works the tip of his tongue between her lips, and Morgana throws her head back into her pillow, trying to push her hips down the bed. A light sweat has broken out over her body, and when she cups her breasts and runs her fingers across her nipples, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Trevor focuses his attention on Morgana’s clit once more, tongue flicking back and forth at a relentless pace, and Morgana digs her heels into Trevor’s shoulder blades.

“Fu- _uck_ ,” Morgana squeaks out, before moaning again. She lifts her head weakly to look down the bed. “Trevor... shit... I’m not used to this, I think I might...”

Trevor digs his fingers into Morgana’s thighs in silent permission, and a choked noise escapes her throat as her head falls back into the pillows once more, her moans rising in pitch and frequency. Her orgasm crashes over her like a wave, starting where Trevor is working away diligently and spreading along her arms and legs, a numbing sensation that leaves bliss in its wake. She cries out loudly, unashamed, as she feels a few dribbles of come escape her, to be mopped up by Trevor’s keen tongue.

Trevor pulls away after a couple of moments, before she starts to get too sensitive. He crawls back up the bed to where Morgana is splayed, giggling, with her arms thrown over her eyes. Trevor laughs darkly. “I haven’t fuckin’ killed ya, have I? I mean, I know I’m good, but I’m not _that_ good,” he says, picking Morgana’s arm up and moving it to the side, to reveal her grinning face.

“Sorry,” she says, laughing again. “I get fucking dopey as shit after I come.” Morgana giggles to herself. “You’re too good.”

“That’s kinda sexy, y’know,” Trevor drawls, leaning forward to kiss Morgana. She can taste herself on his lips, almost sweet, not the bitterness she was expecting, and it’s quite erotic. He breaks away, looking into her eyes. “You gonna return the favour for Uncle T?”

“ _Uncle T_?” she asks with a lilt in her voice. “I think I just prefer my Trevor,” she says, reaching down to Trevor’s neglected dick in his boxers.

“ _Your_ Trevor?” Trevor asks, and his cock twitches in her grip. She reaches for the waistband of his boxers and pushes them down below his ass, gasping a little at the sight of his cock springing free.

“Yeah,” Morgana breathes into Trevor’s mouth, glancing up into his eyes from his dick. “You’re _all_ mine.”

“God,” Trevor growls, taking Morgana’s wrists and pinning them down to the mattress above her head, before kissing her deeply. Trevor grinds his hips down onto Morgana’s, but her eyes fly open when she realises what he’s trying to do.

“Condom,” she says, and Trevor pulls away from her mouth.

“Really?” he whines, and Morgana narrows her eyes. “Surely you’re on the pill or something.”

Morgana huffs. “I am, thanks for asking, but I have no idea where your dick’s been.”

“Well, I could tell you,” Trevor offers, before he pauses. “On second thoughts, no, I think I’d rather get a condom.” He climbs off the bed to search for his wallet, abandoned in his trousers.

“And you called _me_ the mood killer,” Morgana says just loud enough for Trevor to hear.

Trevor doesn’t reply, choosing to simply stand up at the foot of the bed, having kicked off his boxers at some point. Naked except for his tattoos, he takes his dick in his hand, pumping it loosely a few times to full hardness. “You see what you do to me, Morgs?” he asks in a deep, gravelly voice. “You make me crazy, you make me wanna just - fuck - make me wanna lose control...”

Morgana sits up on the bed, biting her lip as she watches Trevor slowly jerk himself off. He puts the condom on in a quick and practiced motion, before setting his knees down on the mattress and crawling up the bed. “Fuck me,” Trevor growls as his lips touch Morgana’s again, draping himself over her body. “Ride me, make me your little fucking _bitch--_ ”

Shoving at his shoulders, Morgana forces Trevor to lie down before she quickly straddles him, the length of his dick hot against her pussy. She kneels up a little, reaching back to guide Trevor’s cock inside her. “You going to help me then, _bitch_?” she sneers, Trevor groaning at the word.

“Hell fuckin’ yes,” Trevor says, reaching around Morgana to help her. She jumps a little, gasping, as he gets the position just right.

“You’re...” she starts, before she tips her head back, moaning as Trevor watches her sink down onto his cock, hypnotised. “Jesus.”

Trevor laughs, the sound broken as he suddenly grips Morgana’s hips, fighting the urge to thrust. “Not even close, Princess,” he chokes out, Morgana fully seated in his lap now.

“God, you’re so big,” Morgana says, smiling widely down at Trevor.

His face scrunches up. “Don’t lie to my face,” he says, rocking his hips upwards in anger. He groans deeply as Morgana makes a high-pitched sound.

“I’m _not_ ,” she says, rolling her hips forward. Immediately, her hands fall to rest on Trevor’s pectorals. “You’re so... fuck, so wide and...”

“You like that?” Trevor asks, putting his feet flat on the bed to help thrust up into Morgana. It’s a slow pace to start, Trevor mostly taking the opportunity to admire Morgana’s breasts in action.

“Yeah,” Morgana giggles, rolling harder down into Trevor’s hips, seeking the tingle she can get in this position from her clit going back and forth against Trevor’s skin. “Feel like I’m doin’ a lot of the work, though,” she breathes, tipping her head back and moaning as Trevor thrusts up suddenly.

“Oh yeah?” Trevor says. “Lemme fuck you then,” he says, sitting up and manoeuvring Morgana so she’s sitting in his lap, her breasts squashed between them and their foreheads pressed together. “Or is that not _intimate_ enough for you,” he teases.

Morgana gasps a little at the movement or his words, maybe both, and Trevor watches the way her face changes with pleasure. “This is plenty intimate,” she breathes, before leaning forward to kiss him.

The kiss lasts a few seconds before Trevor grows restless, tipping them both onto their sides in a tangle of limbs and connected bodies. He manages to roll Morgana onto her back, her legs looped around his waist. “Missionary?” she asks with a giggle.

“You gotta stop laughing at me,” Trevor says, moving up onto his knees and taking Morgana’s hips with him before he thrusts down into her. Morgana moans a guttural moan, her eyes fluttering shut. “That’s what I thought,” he says smugly.

Morgana still laughs again, though. “Laughing means I’m having fun, eejit,” she says. “Now flip me over and fucking fuck me properly, Trevor.”

Trevor doesn’t need telling twice. He pulls out quickly, hands trying to grab any part of Morgana’s body in the effort to turn her over faster. Bringing her pliant body up onto all fours, he guides his cock back inside her all in one go. “Fucking hell,” Morgana moans, leaning on her elbows with her head buried in a pillow.

“Keep moaning for me, baby,” Trevor says as he picks up a quick rhythm, balls slapping against Morgana’s arse with every thrust. He grabs some of Morgana’s hair and pulls, and to his delight Morgana pushes back onto his dick at the action.

“Harder, c’mon,” Morgana commands, and Trevor gives her hair one last yank before he grips her hips, slamming his cock home on every down-stroke. “Fuck, Trevor, I think...” she manages, before she changes her mind. “Touch my clit,” she begs in a rush.

Trevor practically howls, thrusts beginning to lose their rhythm. “So... fucking _dirty_ ,” he snarls, reaching underneath where they’re joined to just brush his fingers over her clit. Morgana buckles, shouting Trevor’s name as she reaches her orgasm once again, only this time she comes hard enough for it to drip out of her and down onto the bed. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” Trevor smacks her arse once, hard, before he buries himself inside Morgana, coming inside the condom.

He holds himself there for a couple of moments before he relaxes, panting heavily as he pulls out. Trevor flops down onto the bed beside Morgana, who uncurls herself from where she had collapsed and lies down on the mattress too, avoiding the wet patch. Lazily, Trevor pulls the condom off his rapidly softening dick, knotting it and throwing it in the bin next to Morgana’s bed.

“Wow,” Morgana says eventually, turning her head to look at Trevor’s face beside her. Her eyes trail down his torso, chest rising and falling as he attempts to catch his breath.

“ _Wow_? That’s it?” Trevor asks, turning his head towards hers. “I give you the ride of your fucking life and all you have to say is _wow_?”

Morgana can tell that Trevor isn’t really angry, so instead she lazily reaches across to cup the side of his face. “What did you want me to say, hmmm? That it was the best sex I’ve ever had with a guy I’ve only known for a week?”

“Now that’s just overkill,” Trevor counters, determined to be contrary. Morgana just laughs quietly to herself, rolling so she can curl into Trevor’s side. Absently, he strokes his fingers up and down Morgana’s bare flank. “You don’t have any tattoos,” he states.

“I don’t,” Morgana replies softly, watching Trevor’s expression. “They need covering up during shoots and I just never really felt like it.”

Trevor hums. “Would you get one, though?”

Morgana shifts, pulling her hair over her shoulder to loosely plait it, fiddling while she talks. “Maybe. Probably. I feel like I need something kinda poignant, you know? I wouldn’t want to make a mistake.” Morgana glances at Trevor’s shoulder and the tattoo to Michael there.

Trevor catches her looking. “Yeah, well, like I said. No regrets about anything. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and all that bullshit.”

Morgana makes a noise of approval, before reaching down to the end of the bed and pulling the duvet up over them both. “I don’t wanna get out of bed today.”

“You’re making it _real_ difficult for me to want to either, Princess,” he says, shuffling to wrap his arms around Morgana completely, all but hauling her on top of his chest, both of them still completely naked. Morgana goes with it, limbs still soft post-orgasm, the call of sleep beckoning her. “We should drive home tonight though.”

 _Home_. Morgana smiles at the word, lips pressed against one of Trevor’s pectorals. “I just wanna stay here,” she mumbles.

Trevor sighs, raking a hand through her matted hair. “What, and just give up on getting rid of Arthur? You’re not that kind of girl, Morgs.”

Morgana huffs. “I hate it when you’re right.” Trevor’s laugh rumbles through his chest, and Morgana can’t stay mad at him for more than a few seconds. “I’m still-- nap time. Then, pancakes.”

Trevor snorts a little. “Pancakes?”

“Yeah,” Morgana says, already half-asleep. “Proper... like they used to.”

Trevor looks down at her for an explanation, but her eyes have already slipped closed. He sighs, rolling his eyes to himself with a smile on his face, before he tightens his arms around her and tries to get some sleep, too.

*

Arthur’s eyes open immediately as he wakes up, something he’d been conditioned into during his time in the army, and something he’d never grown out of, nearly fifteen years later. His gaze lands on the peroxide-blonde head of hair on the pillow next to his, and the events of last night come back to him in a flash. He clamps his hand down on the girl’s naked shoulder, and she startles awake.

“Jesus! You fucking scared me!”

“You need to leave. Now.” Arthur’s voice is purposefully cold. The girl turns to him - quite pretty, huge tits - with a pout on her face. “I’m not going to ask you again,” he says clearly.

The girl’s mouth opens and closes before she huffs, getting out of the bed and stumbling over to the armchair in Arthur’s bedroom, quickly putting on her underwear before she pulls her skimpy dress over her slim frame. Tottering in her high heels, she eventually makes for the bedroom door, and the stairs that will lead to the apartment exit. “You want me to leave you my number?” she asks, in as sultry a voice she can muster despite her embarrassment.

Arthur snorts, now sat up in his bed. He can’t even remember her name. “Fuck off,” he scoffs, and a few moments later the door to his apartment slams shut upstairs. Rubbing his hands over his face, he reaches for his iFruit phone, scrolling through his contacts to find Gwaine’s number.

He picks up on one of the last rings. “Boss, I love ya, but it’s way too early for this shit.”

“It’s half one in the afternoon,” Arthur deadpans. Saying that, he swings his legs out of his bed, padding over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Los Santos. Phone to his ear, he picks a pair of sweatpants off an armchair, pulling them on awkwardly. “I need a sit-rep on Morgana after last night.”

There’s a pause on Gwaine’s end as Arthur heads out of his bedroom and upstairs into his lounge. “Gwaine,” he repeats.

“She got away,” Gwaine says eventually. Arthur pauses in the middle of his kitchen, processing the words. He picks an orange up from his fruit bowl and smashes it down on the counter. It makes him feel a little better.

“ _Explain_ ,” he hisses, putting Gwaine on speakerphone and letting his phone clatter on the marble. He puts his anger to good use by furiously chopping fruit for his breakfast, ignoring the orange splattered on the worktop, bleeding onto the floor.

“Well,” Gwaine starts. “We trailed her and her plus one out. They went up to the car, Lance was on the net saying that _they_ were saying that they were too drunk to drive.” Arthur pulls a face at that; he’d seen himself that Morgana hadn’t drank much at all. “So they hail a cab, but it’s all a bit fishy - I mean, half the cabs in town were running for that night, y’know what it’s like on a Friday night at the bar turn out time, but there was one _right there_.”

“Get to the point,” Arthur says, chucking the various chopped up fruits in a bowl. He finds a fork and starts eating, leaning against his kitchen counters with the bowl held against his chest.

“So we followed them for a bit, and then - Perce will back me up here - they just fucking took off. That wasn’t an ordinary cab, it sounded like there was a V8 or something under the hood. They headed straight for downtown LS, and we don’t know those roads too well, so we’re trying our hardest but the car got wrecked against a light pole and they got away.”

“They got away,” Arthur repeats, fork paused halfway between the bowl and his mouth.

“Well, yeah, they weren’t sticking around,” Gwaine says, and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“I mean, _they_. Plural. That Tony of Morgana’s wasn’t driving, was he?”

Gwaine hums for a moment. “No. I think some black guy was driving and there was a guy in the front shooting at us.” A pause. “I should’ve maybe mentioned the shooting part first, right?”

Arthur sets his breakfast aside to lean in close to his phone’s receiver. “You get _shot at_ by someone working for - or with - Morgana, and you don’t think of telling me?”

“Shit, Arthur, I’m sorry, alright? I literally only just fucking woke up, turns out crashing your car isn’t top of the ER’s priorities for bandaging you up and it took me an age to get home.”

Arthur stands up straight, but he doesn’t soften up. “Is that everything?”

“Yeah,” Gwaine breathes, a little calmer. “Ask Perce if you need a second account. But the main vibes I was getting is that she wasn’t in the mood for _parlay_. Oh!” Gwaine says. “The guy shooting, he had a balaclava on but he was white. Kind of large, older looking, y’know? Fancy suit and all that.”

Arthur chews his tongue for a moment. “Thanks, Gwaine. Have a good weekend.” He hangs up the call, returning to his breakfast for the time being. Morgana had well and truly given Arthur the finger, and it had been meticulously planned; instead of simply escaping in her own very fast car (which Arthur had placed a tracker on months ago, but she’d seemingly removed), she’d managed to give him the slip entirely.

It was very obvious to Arthur that she wasn’t going to come back without a fight. Arthur now just had to level the playing field.

He finishes his fruit salad, setting the bowl down on the counter and picking up his phone. He thumbs through to Gaius’ number as he crosses his apartment to his sofa, sitting down on it and turning on the news, the volume low as the call connects. “Gaius.”

“Arthur,” Gaius responds from the other end of the line. “I’ve heard that tone of voice enough times to know you’re not in a good mood right now.”

“Morgana’s gone,” Arthur says, watching the news. There is coverage of the red carpet from last night’s masquerade ball, but nothing about any trouble afterwards. Morgana’s smiling face comes up on the screen, and Arthur considers smashing it. “I tried to talk sense to her in the Gentry last night, to no avail. She’s not coming back to Pendragon, unless I drag her back kicking and screaming.”

Gaius hums at the other end of the line. “I still don’t have her location. She hasn’t been using her cell enough, and all of her ATM transactions have been in and around Los Santos - no movements there. Unless, of course, she’s withdrawing money here then heading elsewhere, but...”

“I want her accounts frozen,” Arthur says. “That’s it. Like Leon said, that was her final warning, and all she’s done is throw it back in my face. I can leave you with the financial side of it all, can’t I Gaius?”

“Leave it with me,” Gaius says. “I can have her accounts frozen within the hour, unless she’s had the foresight to open one herself...”

“Don’t toy with me, Gaius, I’m a man on the edge right now,” Arthur says without a trace of sarcasm. “Have you got a CCTV feed for the very western end of Vinewood Boulevard, near the Gentry? Morgana’s car should be parked there, near the Up-n-Atom.”

“Give me a... Nope. Nothing. Let me see if I can access the... ahh, yes,” Gaius says. “I knew it wouldn’t stick around for long.”

“Elaborate,” Arthur commands simply.

“8am this morning. Tall black man, socks and flip flops, Families colours. Smashed the window in and sped off, but I don’t have enough feeds to track him properly. That’d take a while.”

“So her precious car got robbed by some hoodlum,” Arthur says, before he laughs. “At least that’s worked in our favour; we can cross that off the list of her assets. If you take care of the accounts, I’ll get the locks on her apartment changed. I’m going to call her agent too, tell her to not consider Morgana for any work anytime soon.”

“Why not a clean break?” Gaius asks.

“Too risky. I don’t need her to go to the press with it, and then for the press to get involved. We keep this quiet until we have to go loud.”

Gaius makes a noise of confusion. “Do you need to talk to your father about this?”

Arthur’s free hand clenches into a fist. “Uther doesn’t need to be involved. That’s the end of that matter.”

Gaius sighs, one of those long ones that Arthur knows too well. “It’s just a shame, that’s all. She was a nice girl. I remember when--”

“Emphasis on _was_ , Gaius,” Arthur snaps, turning the television set off quickly. He stands up and walks towards his heist room. “I want those accounts frozen within the hour. I’ll be checking.” Arthur hangs up and pockets his phone, walking through to his office-cum-planning room. He types in the 10 digit password for his safe before it swings open, revealing money and keys. He grabs the set labelled ‘Mrgn’ before he locks the safe again.

Arthur makes his way out of his apartment and down the corridor to the neighbouring one, the keys clinking together as he unlocks Morgana’s door. It feels odd as he walks in, and within a minute he can tell that she hasn’t visited for nearly a week, now; the air feels still and old, and everything is _too_ tidy. The decor is almost identical to that in his own apartment; if anything it has less homely touches than Arthur’s does.

Arthur leans against the back of her sofa, using EyeFind on his phone to bring up the number of a local locksmith. “Hello there,” he says when someone answers the phone. “I need some locks replacing, and there’s a bonus in play if I can have someone quite discreet,” he says, and the receptionist replies enthusiastically. “My sister lost her keys for her apartment; I have a spare set, but she’s quite famous, I’m afraid someone will try to break in while she’s away on business.” The receptionist makes a sound of agreement. “3 Alta Street Tower. Buzz for apartment 57 and I’ll let your guy in. Within the hour? Perfect, thanks.”

With that settled, Arthur has one final phone call to make, before he’ll head back to his apartment to make himself look a little more presentable. This final person is on his speed dial, and picks up after the first ring. “Hello?” they ask.

“Gwen,” Arthur says, making sure his tone is full of warmth. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Gwen says, and it makes him feel a little sick as he can practically _hear_ the grin in her voice. “How are you?”

“Never better,” he lies. “Would you mind coming over to mine for a bit? I think it’s time we had a little chat about Morgana.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana makes a decision she might live to regret...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because I love a bit of angst :') enjoy!

After pancakes, a quick shower, and an even quicker clean-up of the house, Morgana stands in the middle of her lounge, packed bag at her side. Trevor’s suit and her dress have been carefully put away in her closet, for a time when she isn't about to begin a civil war within the business she belongs to. “Didn't you say Franklin was going to drop my car off this afternoon?” Morgana asks, peeking through the curtains to the empty road outside.

“Not Franklin,” Trevor replies. “His _hood brother_ , Lamar. We can't risk Frankie being caught,” Trevor says. “Anyway, I rang my _associate_ Wade, he's bringing the truck down to us.”

“How kind of him,” Morgana utters, heavily doubting that this Wade has decided to do it out of the goodness of his heart, and having more to do with some threats from Trevor.

The Bodhi swings into Morgana’s view, honking its horn, and Trevor picks up Morgana’s bags. “Here's our ride,” Trevor announces, before striding out the door. Morgana takes a moment to look around her little home, ever so slightly terrified that she won't ever come back.

She follows Trevor outside, locking her door and turning to see a man with face paint and dreadlocks cowering under Trevor’s gaze. “I hope you're being nice, Trevor,” she says as she joins them, the younger man looking slightly less frightened at her words.

“Morgs, this is Wade, my associate,” Trevor says. “Wade, this is Morgana, my... er...”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Morgana says, extending her hand. Wade doesn't shake it.

“Is this the pretty lady you was talkin’ bout?” Wade asks Trevor with a slight lisp. Morgana’s eyebrows knit together for a moment, ignoring what Wade is saying and focussing on _how_ he's saying it.

“Wade, now ain't the time. We're on a tight schedule,” Trevor says. “Now I need you to give me my truck keys, and then stay here on lookout for a bit, got it?”

“Lookout for what?” Wade asks. Trevor growls at him, shaking a fist as if he’ll hit him, and Wade raises his hands in submission. “Okay, okay! Whatever you say, Trevor.”

Trevor throws Morgana’s bag in the flatbed of his truck, before he climbs in the driver’s seat. Morgana reluctantly gets in the passenger seat, casting a final look over her shoulder at her little yellow house and the odd man outside it before Trevor pulls away into the traffic.

“He's just like Merlin,” Morgana says a few minutes later. “I don't doubt for a goddamn second that it was you who got Wade hooked on the crystal, wasn't it?”

Trevor sighs, rolling his shoulders. “He was already buying it when I met him, _actually_. I just encouraged him to continue being a loyal customer.”

“And a fucking slave, too. Did you do that to Merlin? Have him at your beck and fucking call, dangling his next hit over his head all the time?” Morgana spits.

“Enough!” Trevor shouts, loud enough for the woman driving the convertible next to them to look over at the truck. Trevor sticks his finger up at her, before turning back to Morgana. “I’m no angel, and you know that, so don’t you fuckin’ _dare_ try to make me feel bad for the way I treat people. Like I’ve said _before_ , the kid was askin’ for an addiction. And they get lost, Morgs! They need guidance, an authority figure! That’s all I’m giving them, that and some less than honest work in return for some drugs and a bit of loyalty. Merlin failed to deliver on the latter, mind you.”

“Fuck you,” Morgana sneers, before turning away to look out of the window at the hills rolling by.

“You already did,” Trevor sing-songs, and Morgana doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to see the shit-eating grin on his face. Instead, she turns the radio up, giving up on that argument for now. The sky darkens as clouds begin to roll in, and by the time they break the mountains and the Alamo Sea is visible in the distance, small raindrops have begun to fall on Morgana’s head.

“Haven’t you got a canopy for this thing?” Morgana asks, the truck kicking up sand behind them as they head through the desert.

“Nope. Don’t worry, though, my trailer’s storm proof. Most of the time,” Trevor says as they slow up onto the dirt roads, the rain falling heavier now.

Morgana turns the radio down. “I need you to drop me at the motel, actually,” she says. “Franklin text me saying that they’re dropping my car there.”

“We can get that later,” Trevor says over the rain. “Should probably get you out of those _wet clothes_ first.”

Morgana doesn’t miss the undertone to his voice. “Take me to the motel,” she demands, and Trevor does a double take. “I need a bit of space.”

“Did you need that space _before_ or _after_ I fucked your brains out this morning?” Trevor sneers, purposefully missing the turning for the motel. Suddenly, the heavens open, the rain now bouncing off the hood of the truck and instantly soaking the both of them.

“You know what? Fuck you,” Morgana says. “Let me out here.”

“ _Here_? You’re coming to my trailer, and that’s the fucking end of it.”

Morgana is too quick to pull her pistol from her handbag, settled at her feet. Rain dripping down her face, her hand trembles a little as she presses the end of it against Trevor’s head. “Pull the fuck over.”

Trevor remains staring straight ahead, pulling over to a stop the side of the road. “Get out,” he mutters through clenched teeth, barely audible over the rain pinging off the hood and the engine ticking over. They’re in the middle of the desert, and Morgana’s not quite sure in which direction the motel is, or any civilisation for that matter.

Regardless, she grabs her damp bag from the truck bed, flipping her wet hair out of her eyes as she throws it onto the sand. “You’d be a hell of a lot more attractive if you weren’t such a fucking ass, for once in your life,” she snaps, picking up her handbag with her free hand.

“Take it or fucking leave it, sunshine,” Trevor shouts as Morgana jumps out of the truck, still pointing the gun at Trevor. “It’s who I am. You just can’t fucking admit that you love me for it, because you’re so far up your _own_ _ass_!” He’s shouting as he says the last line, already starting to pull away.

Morgana screams in frustration, purposefully firing a warning shot high above Trevor’s head, and she gets a small amount of satisfaction when she sees him duck as he speeds away. The shot rings out around the desert. “Fuck you, Trevor Philips!” she screams, and she’s sure he hears it.

The truck disappears behind a sand dune, and a crash of thunder rolls across the sky. Morgana looks around, realising that she isn’t entirely sure where she is, visibility reduced because of the storm. She picks up her bag from where she’d dumped it on the floor, making her pistol safe before she puts it away again in her handbag. She looks around again, flicking her hair out of her eyes, trying not to panic.

After that stunt, she’s sure Trevor isn’t going to come to her rescue this time.

In fact, she’s almost sure that she’s just thrown away her chance of killing Arthur, and taking over Pendragon. And because of what? Because Trevor was right? Because she can’t admit to herself that she’s attracted - she daren’t use any other word yet - to a man whom she would normally have considered beneath her?

“Good job, Gana,” she mutters to herself, the rain continuing to soak through her flimsy shirt and leggings, the heat of the day beginning to disappear as the sun begins to set somewhere behind the clouds. She grudgingly begins to trek down the road back the way she came, knowing that they’d passed a small town half a mile or so back. She could pull her mask over her head and ask for directions, or maybe they simply wouldn’t recognise her, with rat-tail hair and makeup running down her cheeks.

Morgana thinks about Trevor for most of the walk, despite her best wishes. It takes her mind off how cold she is, or how her clothes are chafing her skin as she moves. One moment, she thinks about the best way of hurting him; the next, she remembers how content she felt curled up against him that very morning. If he were more stable - fuck, if they were both a bit more stable - they could take on giants together. They could take over Pendragon, or Los Santos, or the fucking world, hand in hand.

Thinking about it makes her chest ache a little, and a coyote call startles her out of her thoughts. A highway comes into view, then the buildings of a little town, and Morgana couldn’t be happier; her ballet pumps are starting to squeak with how wet they’ve become. She rings out her hair, full droplets of water dripping from it, before loosely plaiting it to keep it out of her face. A store comes into view, and then a garage.

“Wait,” Morgana mutters, picturing the setting in sunshine. Her motel is in this shitty little town, and so she crosses the highway quickly to find it, in all its rundown glory. She laughs to herself for a moment, feeling joy for the first time in nearly an hour of trekking the sodden desert, before she heads round to the forecourt.

Her Carbonizzare is parked there, intact, alongside a white car. The driver’s side window winds down, and Morgana’s smiles as Franklin waves her over. “Girl, what the fuck happened to you?” he asks, looking Morgana up and down, a frown on his face.

“A misunderstanding. I’m fine,” she says, waving off his concern. “Thanks for bringing her all the way out here,” she says, voice full of gratitude.

The guy in the passenger seat hands a set of keys to Franklin, who then hands them to Morgana. “You got Lamar to thank for that,” he says, gesturing to his passenger, confirming Morgana’s suspicions of his identity. “He’s got his uses.”

“Man, fuck you,” Lamar says. “I could’ve been fuckin’ arrested for pretending to steal a car for you, and for what? For you to talk shit about me? Man, fuck that.”

“Thank you both,” Morgana says, before they can get into a full blown argument. “You guys should go. I’ll speak to you soon.”

“A’ight,” Franklin says. “Be safe.” Morgana steps back and they drive away out of the motel forecourt, leaving Morgana alone with her car keys and her car. Instead of going to her car, though, she turns towards the motel reception.

Puddles form at her feet as she steps inside the building, dripping onto a linoleum floor that’s seen better days. The spotty teenage boy isn’t on reception for once; instead, an older woman with a kind face greets her. “Room for one, sugar?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Morgana says with her fake American accent. She pulls her wallet out of her handbag, opening it up to realise that she’d forgotten to get cash out back in Los Santos. There’s a risk that, if she uses her card, Arthur would be able to track her location, but Morgana only plans on being here for a single night, before she flees somewhere else, far from here. “Can I pay on my card?”

“Sure, honey. Ten dollar surcharge though,” she says as she takes Morgana’s card from between her fingers, not even glancing at the name on it. She puts it through the reader. “That’s failed today, sugar. You got another one to try?”

Morgana stutters. “Excuse me? There’s... there’s more than enough on there to cover the cost of a room.”

The receptionist clucks her tongue. “Might be, sweetie, but your card ain’t workin’. You got another?”

Morgana panics for a moment. She’d always just used one bank account, not ever needing credit or any additional accounts. The rest of her wallet is filled with her driving licence, and various loyalty cards for coffee shops and fast food restaurants. “Can I have my card back? I’m just gonna call my bank, if that’s okay.”

The woman hands Morgana her card back. “It’s alright, sweetie. Just take a seat over there,” she says, pointing to a mouldy looking armchair in the reception area. Morgana sits down, her wet clothes sticking to her body, dumping her bags at her side. She calls the number on the back of her card, and is immediately directed through to a queue on the line.

While she waits to be spoken to, Morgana watches the sky outside turn from grey to black. A few men of varying ages come in, with hookers hanging off their arms, quickly paying for a room and then leaving reception again, usually slapping the girl’s ass as they do so. Morgana keeps her head down, worrying her lip with her teeth as she waits and waits.

Finally, she hears the sound of an operator at the other end of the line. After giving her details and passing the security checks, the man at the other end of the line makes a startled noise. “It looks as if your assets have been frozen, Miss Pendragon.”

“Frozen?” Morgana splutters, and the woman from the reception desk raises an eyebrow at her. She tries to contain her frustration. “But I never did such a thing!”

“It appears a third party credit agency has frozen your account regarding a debt you owe, as far as I can see on my screen,” the man says. Morgana can hear the buzz of a call centre in the background. “That’s all I have, I couldn’t even tell you the agency name or the size of the debt you owe.”

“An owed debt?” Morgana asks, voice small. She can’t believe it.

“That’s it. If you clear that, the agency should then unfreeze your assets with the bank,” the man says cheerily.

“Thanks,” Morgana says blankly, before ending the call. She knows what the debt is, and doesn’t need any more so-called help from the bank representative. The debt she owes to Arthur is her life, or the sum of her body parts served to him on a silver platter. The only way for it to be repaid is for her to go limping back to Arthur and to Pendragon, and to suffer every day for the rest of her life because of it.

She considers going to Trevor’s trailer, like he’d demanded before the argument and the gunshots and the trek through the rainy desert. Sighing, Morgana gets up and picks up her bag, waving half-heartedly to the receptionist as she leaves. She wonders where the teenage boy is; he’d become a familiar face.

The worst of the storm has passed as Morgana walks outside again, the forecourt only lit by one flickering light pole. Her Carbonizzare sits in the shadows of the motel, the indicators flashing as she unlocks it. Her plan includes driving out to somewhere remote, sleeping in her car, and then maybe crawling back to Trevor in the morning, or Arthur, she can’t tell which option is worse. Maybe she’ll just go to Michael or Franklin instead, or even just take a plane out of the state, back to Dublin and the home she doesn’t have anymore.

Morgana is considering all this when she’s roughly pushed up against the side of her car, a strong arm crushing her chest and a knife at her throat. She wants to scream, but all that escapes is a terrified whimper as her eyes focus on the masked man pushing her against her car. “Give me your fucking car keys, and empty your wallet,” the voice says, and there’s no mistaking the slight tremor to the young voice; it’s the odd boy from the motel reception, Morgana realises slowly. With how many times he’d seen her over the last week, he would’ve picked up on who she was, and how much money she had to her name. “Do it, or I’ll make you regret it. _Do it!_ ”

“Okay,” Morgana says, with all intentions of the word being a command but it sounds more like a whimper. “Can you just lower the knife? Please? I’ll give you anything,” she pleads. The boy shoves at her one more time, before tearing the shoulder of her shirt in a threat. He steps back, removing the knife from Morgana’s throat but keeping it pointed at her.

She lunges, both hands immediately going to the wrist wielding the knife, her knee coming up to smash into his crotch. He crumples onto the floor in pain, and Morgana follows him down, practically straddling him, constantly pushing the knife away from her. Nails digging into his skin, the boy drops the knife, but not before slashing Morgana across her collarbone, a long line of red blooming in its wake. She hisses in pain as the knife clatters to the ground, and she wastes no time in picking it back up and plunging it into the boy beneath her, the two of them shrouded in darkness.

“Do you regret it now?” she whispers, glancing from the boy’s bulging eyes to the rest of the parking lot. It’s empty and silent, aside from the splashing of the rain in the puddles around them. “Did I make you regret it?”

Blood gurgles from the boy’s mouth as she twists the knife and then pulls it out, wiping it clean on the boy’s sleeve. She picks her handbag up and quickly finds her keys, getting in her car and flooring it out of the parking lot. She doesn’t look back.

The adrenaline begins to burn out, and in its place comes remorse and regret. It doesn’t surprise her when she ends up parking outside Trevor’s trailer, so wrapped up in her own thoughts. She gets out of the car, bringing the knife with her, and walks through the rain to his front door. Her bloody knuckles rap against the metal.

Trevor appears almost immediately, the open door casting Morgana in a dim light. Morgana’s sure she looks a picture, with make-up running down her face, bottom lip wobbling, and blood-stained hands. He looks her up and down, and he sighs, crossing his arms. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he says lowly. He glances at the side where the knife has caught the light. “Come to finish me off, have ya?”

Morgana sobs once before the tears start to fall, hot against her cold skin. “I’m so sorry,” she manages before she fully breaks down crying. “They c-cut me off and then I was mugged,” she says, shoulders shaking, lungs refusing to take down air normally.

“Woah, shit, hang on,” Trevor says, turning his porch light on to take a proper look at her, and his hands on her shoulders are like a safety blanket. “Come in out of the cold, you lunatic,” he says, guiding her into his surprisingly warm trailer. He sits her down on her sofa, and she tries to wipe her snotty nose in the crook of her elbow. “Hey, no, wai-- whose blood is this?” Trevor says, pointing to her red hands.

“Mugger,” she mumbles, squeezing her eyes shut as another wave of emotion crashes through her. She feels Trevor take the knife from her hands, taking it somewhere before he returns, kneeling on the floor in front of her.

“Take off your shirt,” he says, and Morgana looks at him. “No, not like that, look.” Trevor holds up one of his hoodies. “You’re soaked fucking through, you idiot. Why did you tell me to drop you off in the middle of the fucking desert?”

“Because I’m an eejit,” she mutters to herself. Trevor brushes her wet hair out of her eyes, tucks it behind her ears.

“ _No_ , because you’re even more stubborn than I am, and when you decide you do or don’t want something, you ain’t gonna let some middle-aged psycho stop you, are ya?” Trevor asks. Morgana bites her lip. “C’mon, shirt off.”

She allows herself to be maneuvered like a doll. No sooner is her slashed shirt off that Trevor tries to put the hoodie on, only to notice the blood on her skin. “Who the fuck did this to you?” His tone is the angriest she’s ever heard.

“Mugger,” she repeats, kicking her sodden shoes off.

Trevor looks furious. “Do I need to go and kill him?” He stands up, rooting around in his kitchen cupboards.

“Already done,” Morgana says. “I think.” She can breathe normally again, and the tears are drying on her face. Now, she just feels empty.

Trevor appears in front of her with a bowl of hot water, some antiseptic, and some bandages. “Don’t look at me like that. I was in the military, _remember_? The least I know is how to dress a fucking wound. Sit back.”

“It’s just a scratch,” she murmurs, but she does as she’s told, and Trevor gently lowers one of her bra straps, the one nearest the wound.

“How dare they...” he mutters to himself as he soaks one of the bandages in water. He cleans away the worst of the dried blood on her skin, blood still seeping from the cu

“This is gonna sting,” he says as he switches to another rag, dousing it with antiseptic before brushing it across the cut with practiced strokes.

“Ouch, you dickhead,” Morgana snaps quickly, fingers curling in her lap, not even thinking about what she’s saying. “That fucking stings like a bitch.”

“Ohh, call me that again, darling,” Trevor says, giving Morgana a grin, and it makes her smile for the first time in hours.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says as the pain subsides. Trevor takes a clean bandage, wrapping it over her collarbone and then under her armpit like some kind of lanyard. He works diligently, making sure the bandage is tight before tying off the ends.

“There,” he says, gently putting her bra strap back up onto her bandaged shoulder before offering her the hoodie again. “I got you some sweatpants too. They’re clean and everything. Well, mostly.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Morgana asks, gesturing with her hands. Trevor looks at them, still stained red, and she dunks them in the bowl of water, mixing the mugger’s blood with her own. Morgana wipes her hands on her still-wet leggings.

“Because you were nice to me when I needed it,” Trevor says, and he offers no further explanation than that. “You can change in the bedroom, if ya like. Promise I won’t peek.”

Morgana appreciates the gesture of privacy, despite the fact that they’d shared a bed and more that very morning. She gets up from the sofa, not realising quite how tired she was until she does so, walking through to Trevor’s room. Quickly, she changes into the sweatpants and hoodie, the latter causing her to gasp in pain. “You okay?”

“Stop worrying about me, it’s weirding me out,” Morgana says as she goes back into the lounge.

“I’m _gonna_ worry about you when you turn up at my trailer in the middle of the night, crying and covered in blood.” They sit on the sofa side by side, and Morgana gives in, curling into Trevor. He sighs, wrapping an arm around her, being careful of her injury. “You gonna explain any of this afternoon to me?”

Morgana makes a noise into Trevor’s chest. “I needed a bit of space from you when I wanted you to stop the truck, and you were trying to force me into... I can’t do that anymore, I can’t cope,” she admits, and the words feel like poison in her mouth. Trevor tenses up under her, and she makes sure her hands are holding him as he holds her. “I just wanted to think it all through, to evaluate everything. A week ago, I hadn’t even met you, and now... now, there’s something, I just don’t know what.”

“I hope you work it out soon, Princess,” Trevor says, anger buried deep in his tone, “because you’ve pointed a gun at my head twice this week, and I ain’t _too_ keen on making it a hat trick.”

“Trevor,” Morgana says weakly.

Trevor holds her tighter. “It’s fine. Go on.”

“I went to the motel,” Morgana continues, pressing the side of her face into Trevor’s chest, gathering strength from the solid warmth of it. “Franklin was there with my car, which was a small blessing. I go to pay for my room, and I’d forgotten to get cash out, so I had to use my card.”

“Paper trail,” Trevor mutters, one hand fiddling with a bit of Morgana’s damp hair.

“I didn’t have any cash, and it doesn’t matter now. Transaction didn’t go through, my account’s been frozen.”

Trevor stiffens. “And that’ll be Arthur, right? You can’t unfreeze it?”

“I called a guy working for the bank, said it was by a third party credit agency. I don’t doubt for a second that Gaius - Arthur’s Lester, if you will - could freeze my account like that.”

Trevor pauses playing with Morgana’s hair. “You think he knows?”

“I think us escaping the masquerade in a blaze of fury was a big fucking clue,” Morgana says, and when Trevor chuckles, it reverberates through his chest. “We’re going to have to move fast. And... I’m now useless. I can only presume he’s got my apartment, too.”

“Nobody said you’re useless, Princess,” Trevor says, and Morgana tips her head up to look at Trevor. “Firstly, you are supremely good at holding me. Next level, even.”

Morgana rolls her eyes, but smiles nonetheless. “I knew you were soft at heart.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t tell anyone. And you’re right. Let me get Lester on the phone.”

Morgana glances at the clock. “It’s late.”

“I’m pretty sure he never sleeps,” Trevor counters, digging his phone out of his back pocket, jostling Morgana a little in the process. He taps in a number and puts the phone to his ear. “Lest. We need to move on this ASAP.” He pauses for a moment. “Got it.” He hangs up his phone, turning back to Morgana. “Tomorrow morning. Michael’s house. Our little _rendezvous_ has been brought forward twenty-four hours, in light of recent circumstances.”

“Does he know?” Morgana asks, brow furrowed.

“C’mon, this is Lester Crest,” Trevor counters. “He knows _everything_.”

“So can I finally get some sleep now?” Morgana yawns.

Trevor groans. “You slept all fucking morning.”

“Yeah, because you _fucked_ me all fucking morning. Now I need the sleep to make up for the sleep I didn’t actually get,” Morgana points out.

Trevor doesn’t reply, simply looking down at Morgana curled into his side. “You’re a fuckin’ puzzle, that’s what you are.”

Morgana makes a small noise. “Carry me to bed?” she asks quietly.

“Point proven,” Trevor mutters under his breath. “Alright, c’mon. For such a strong, independent woman, you’re awful clingy,” he says as he stands, lifting Morgana into his arms. “And heavy.”

“Gee, thanks,” Morgana mumbles sarcastically. “And you’re clingy too. Emotions don’t make you weak.”

“Hmm,” Trevor says, leaving that conversation there. He sets Morgana down on the edge of his unmade bed, trying his hardest to gently tuck her in but failing miserably. She sighs with a smile on her face, shifting over towards the wall so Trevor can slide in next to her, having shut off the lights in the living area and stripped down to his boxers. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Morgana says warmly.

“I mean, are you _okay_?” Trevor intones.

Morgana sighs, curling into Trevor’s side, wincing when she pulls at the cut on her collarbone the wrong way. She’s still wearing the hoodie and track pants, and will be sweating soon, but she’s comfortable. “Yeah. I mean, apart from losing everything I had for the last ten years within the space of a week, I think I’m okay.” She pauses. “I’ve got you, and the boys, and a dream I’m _this_ close to getting. I’m good.”

Trevor kisses her forehead. “Get some sleep then, Princess. Dreams require sleep.”

Morgana rolls her eyes in the dark, before she finally allows her eyelids to close, Trevor’s arms wrapped protectively around her.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all finally going to plan... or is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains one of my favourite scenes, enjoy :)

“ _This_ is Michael’s house?”

Morgana stares up at the Spanish-style mansion spread before her, various cars littering the driveway. No evidence remains of the storm last night; the sun even threatens to burn her if she stays out in it for too long.

“Yup,” Trevor says from her side. He’s stood closer than usual, as if the mugger is about to come back from the dead to attack her right there and then. “Are you gonna stare at it all day or are we gonna go inside?”

Morgana sighs, starting to walk up the drive. When she reaches the front door, she goes to knock, but Trevor simply pushes it open and holds it for her. “Hey, Mikey!” Trevor sing-songs loudly, the words echoing through the hallway.

“God,” Morgana whispers, looking around. “I could never have a place like this. Way too big.”

“Thought you liked them big?” Trevor leers. He leads them through to a small dining room looking out over a pool as Morgana’s face turns bright red, despite her best wishes and hard eye-roll.

She stops in her tracks, however, when she sees Gwen, amicably chatting with another woman.

“Gwen?” Morgana asks, confusion evident in her voice. She blinks. Gwen shouldn’t be here, in this part of her life; she belongs to the part Morgana’s trying to leave behind.

“Morgana!” Gwen grins, smile wide. She looks to her friend, leaning against the kitchen counter, before she looks back to Morgana. “I’m so pleased to see you, oh my God. I was just talking to my friend Amanda the other day - we do yoga together - and she mentioned your name!”

“She did, did she?” Morgana asks quietly, looking at the woman. She seems to be locked in a staring match with Trevor, who is nearly shaking at her side.

“I’m Amanda, Michael’s wife,” she says, pushing off the counter to outstretch her hand. “I love your modelling work, by the way.” Morgana limply shakes her hand, still in shock. “Trevor,” Amanda then says in greeting, as if Trevor’s name is acid on her tongue.

“So nice to see you again Amanda. How’re the kids? Still tryna leave home?” Trevor asks, and when Morgana glances at him he’s smirking. Amanda huffs indignantly, turning away from him.

Morgana ignores them both, turning to Gwen, whose smile has faded a little. “Sorry, Gwen,” she says, taking her friend’s hands. “This week has just been...” Morgana shakes her head. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going, when I left. I couldn’t risk it. You know how Arthur is.”

“Sure,” Gwen says, smiling. Her brown eyes flicker to Trevor. “And this is...?”

“Oh!” Morgana says, looking between Trevor and Gwen. “This is Trevor,” she says, leaving it short and sweet. She has no idea how to introduce him at all. “And Trev, this is Gwen, my best friend. We work together.”

“Gwen, how nice to put a face to the name,” Trevor says, taking one of Gwen’s hands and kissing the back of it. Gwen giggles, while Amanda makes a noise of disgust from the corner of the room. “Morgana’s told me so much about you.”

Morgana keeps a poker face; Morgana hasn’t so much as breathed Gwen’s name during the last week, let alone tell Trevor about her. She’ll have to bring him up to speed later.

“Only good things I hope!” Gwen chirps, smile infectious as ever. Morgana feels herself beginning to relax after her initial surprise, when the patio doors open for Michael and Franklin to walk in.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Michael says. “Me and Franklin were just reminiscin’ about the time we met.” Michael takes a seat at the dining room table, where a bottle of whiskey and a few glasses are sat.

“Huh, yeah,” Franklin says, the two of them laughing at something Morgana will have to work out later. Michael starts pouring generously. “Lester’s here so I’m gonna give him a hand.” Morgana’s eyebrows knit together for a moment as Franklin passes her to head out front.

Trevor pulls out a chair noisily and sits down next to Michael, Morgana slowly settling into the seat on the other side of Trevor. Michael pushes glasses towards them. “Well, me and Gwen are heading out for mimosas,” Amanda announces brightly. “You can come pick me up later, Michael.” She kisses her husband on the top of the head, and Morgana doesn’t miss Michael’s smile at the action.

“See you later, baby,” Michael calls. Morgana smacks Trevor’s arm when he starts making gagging noises, before she takes a gulp of the whiskey. She has a feeling she’s going to need it.

“It was nice to see you, Morgs,” Gwen says quietly, and Morgana sobers, standing up again for a moment. “Hopefully things will work out, yeah?”

Michael and Trevor are deadly silent. “Yeah, hopefully they will,” she says with a small smile.

Gwen looks between Morgana and Trevor, quickly. “I think they already have, for you.”

Morgana blushes, hiding it by leaning in to kiss Gwen’s cheek. “See you, Gwen,” she says, watching as Gwen and Amanda walk from the room.

“She works for Pendragon, right?” Michael asks when they’re out of earshot.

“Yeah,” Morgana says, voice heavy as she sits down again, taking another sip from her glass. “Arthur’s right hand woman, aside from me, pretty much. She’s clean though, mostly.”

“Shame. She seems kind of nice, y’know? Not in the fake LS way, but in a genuine way,” Michael says, sipping his whiskey.

“More importantly,” Trevor says, putting his hands flat on the table. “How much does she know about us? Is she gonna connect you to Mikey and me and all the shit we’ve done?”

“You guys didn’t ever really come up on our radar at Pendragon,” Morgana explains. “Until the UD heist, but I didn’t even work that out myself until recently. Connecting me to _you_ , though,” she says to Trevor, “Gwen might realise who you are, if she were to connect the dots.” Morgana takes another drink.

“What, she’ll realise that he’s your boyfriend?” Michael asks.

Morgana nearly sprays her whiskey halfway across the table.

“We’re not... we haven’t...” Trevor is saying as Morgana swallows her mouthful and fights to catch her breath.

“We... I...” she mutters, looking desperately to Trevor. “I _meant_ , as Arthur’s rival, not as my--”

“Hope you haven’t started the party without me, heh heh.”

Morgana recognises the voice, but as she turns around in her seat to find its owner, she instead finds a pale, overweight older man leaning heavily on a walking stick, Franklin at his side. “Lester, good to see ya,” Michael says from behind her. Lester finally looks up at Morgana, and stops dead in his tracks.

“Oh, boy,” he says, reaching up to adjust his spectacles. He takes a step closer, leering a little, and Morgana tells herself to stay still. “You look even better in the flesh.”

Trevor’s hand clamps down on Morgana’s shoulder, and Lester clears his throat as Morgana relaxes slightly. “You’re livin’ up to your creepy reputation, Lest,” Trevor says as a thinly veiled threat.

“My apologies,” Lester is quick to say, shuffling to take the remaining seat at the table. Franklin sets down a briefcase in front of Lester, before he takes a seat on one of the kitchen counter stools. “Let’s get started, shall we?” he half-laughs in a nasally tone, and Morgana has to remind herself that _this_ was the man who orchestrated one of the biggest bank heists modern America has seen. “No thanks,” he says to Michael when he’s offered a drink; it goes to Franklin instead.

“Okay, well,” Lester begins, when he realises all eyes in the room are on him. “I’ve done some digging, but I just need to confirm a few details. You want both Arthur and Uther dead, yes?”

“Yes.” Morgana says it with such certainty that Lester shrinks a little under the intensity of her stare.

“Good. Right. Well, on the day - to yet be decided, but it needs to be soon--”

“Arthur froze Morgana’s bank accounts and everything after our stunt at the ball,” Trevor says to Michael, and over his shoulder to Franklin. “He knows something’s up, and the longer we leave it, the more time he has to prepare.”

“Shit, that’s the most sensible fuckin’ thing you’ve ever said,” Franklin deadpans, ignoring Trevor’s following death glare.

“Anyway,” Lester says, in a tone that suggests to Morgana he’s been the peacemaker more than once between the three of them. “I’ve had a look at a few different options, but this one seems to be the best. It’s a two phase operation. Phase one is the violent one at Arcadius, taking out Arthur and as many of the Pendragon crew as fits Morgana’s masterplan.”

“Personally,” Morgana says, touching a hand gently to her chest. “I’d like to keep Gwen, and all of the office staff outside of Arthur’s personal ring. But none of his goons.”

“And Merlin?” Trevor asks. Morgana turns to him, and his expression is unreadable.

Michael laughs under his breath. “T, are you honestly scared that little tweaker is gonna steal your girl? He could barely string a sentence together when I bumped into him at the ball.”

“Michael,” Morgana warns lowly, putting a hand on a growling Trevor’s arm. “Merlin doesn’t die. _Yet_ ,” she emphasises when the hurt hidden behind Trevor’s eyes becomes plain to see. “I’ll decide what to do with him after the raid.”

“So,” Lester continues awkwardly. “Raid on Arcadius in plain daylight, some crowd control to be done while we execute those we need to... heh, _dispose_ of. I can hack into the systems, make sure they have no access to the armoury, the elevators, et cetera... there are always personal weapons to consider, of course, but you’ll all be kitted out. And by _all_... I do mean you four, plus a couple of extra guys for muscle. Packie, maybe. You can round up a crew.”

“Isn’t it dangerous to have Morgana there though?” Trevor asks. “Seeing as the whole fucking alibi for her then taking over the company is that she _survives_ this thing?”

“We need Morgana in phase one at Arcadius, because she knows the place and the people. With a balaclava and some super heavy armour, she won’t be recognised,” Lester says, pushing his glasses up. “Her alibi is that she’ll be visiting Uther.”

Morgana’s shiver doesn’t go unnoticed. Trevor covers her hand with his, and Franklin makes a “huh” noise behind them.

“We’ll let her be seen by his personal bodyguards there - he’s spending his retirement in a big mansion somewhere here in Rockford Hills, I couldn’t exactly find which one, though.”

“I know where he is,” she says quietly. Michael nods subtly.

“Good. Well. If you wouldn’t mind _sharing_ that information with me at some point,” Lester nearly sneers, “I can try getting into the CCTV, work out his bodyguard patrols, their schedules, their weapons. You’ll turn up in plain clothes, as if you’re just visiting. No one else. You need to get him alone - I’m sure that won’t be too much of a problem - and then you’ll slip him a poison. It’ll look natural, and I’ll get my guy who knows a guy to tip off the media saying that he died after hearing of his son’s death. I’ll get a text to Uther’s phone and everything.”

“How poetic,” Morgana mutters with an eye roll.

“Lester, I appreciate what you’re doin’,” Franklin says, “but how the fuck are we meant to get Morgana halfway across town after taking out half a fuckin’ building?”

“You’re the best driver in Southern San Andreas, Frank, it’s just a shame you can’t put two and two together,” Michael drawls. “You’re the driver, obviously.”

“Well, shit, _yeah_ , but what about the cops?” Franklin asks, crossing his arms. “Someone in that building will hear us.”

“I’ll get a distraction set up out east, or south, maybe both... there won’t be many downtown after I’ve had my fun.” Lester laughs to himself then, rubbing his hands together. “Plus, the floor below Pendragon is empty at the moment, a company is moving in in a few weeks. That should negate any noise issues, heh heh.”

All four of the others stare at him. “Okay, okay,” he says, opening the briefcase. “Any questions so far?”

“Enough information to keep us interested, not enough for us to actually do it without you,” Trevor drawls. “Once again Lester, you’ve given me a reason not to kill you and dump your corpse in the ocean, never to be found again.”

Lester’s laugh is much less enthusiastic this time. “Thank you, Trevor. I’ll keep that in mind,” he sneers. Lester passes papers to all of them. “Disregarding Merlin’s profile, then, here’s our hit list. Memorise their faces, physical appearances, and then burn the paper, you know the drill.”

Morgana pouts a little as she flicks through her pack of paper to Merlin’s face, the photograph from his passport a couple of years ago, when he was young and innocent. On the next page is a photograph of him more recently, covered in scabs and looking deathly thin. She closes the pack.

“I want to take a moment to remind you all,” Lester continues, “that this is probably the most dangerous and downright stupid mission you’ve tried to pull off yet. Have I said that yet?”

“Yes,” they all sigh.

“Good. Because it is. Six of you, maximum, against six of Arthur’s men, Arthur himself, and god knows how many others, in a strategic position at the top of a skyscraper with a pretty good suspicion we’re probably coming for him. You think your little car chase downtown the other day went unnoticed? Think again.”

Morgana’s stomach plummets. A dream that had been so close now seems so far away, and at what cost? The men around her could die for her to take her rightful place at Pendragon. She looks to Trevor and gently holds his hand.

“So that’s it? We just wait for you to tell us it’s on, and then we go in blind?” Morgana asks quietly.

“No. Trevor, you still renting that warehouse off the freeway?” Lester asks instead.

“What? I fuckin’ own the thing, Lester,” Trevor snaps back.

“Good, we need a base of operations. I’ll start gathering some equipment, find something that will, uh, actually fit _you_ ,” he says, looking at Morgana. “Trevor, you can get in touch with Oscar perhaps, get us some heavy weapons, Franklin, I’m sure you can boost us a vehicle than can get all of you to Arcadius, and then you and Morgana to Uther’s.”

“ _Boostin’ cars_ is what the kid’s best at,” Michael interjects. “Trust me, I know.”

“Hey, cool it man, what’s done is done,” Franklin says, shaking his head at Michael. Morgana looks on blankly. “Yeah, sure, I can do that.”

“Alright,” Lester says, putting his papers back in his briefcase. “I’ll call you all when we’re ready to roll, it won’t be too long now. A week, tops. Until then, lay low, don’t do anything stupid--” Lester looks at Trevor as he says this, the latter looking affronted “--and I’ll be in touch.”

“That’s it?” Morgana asks. “No detailed plans, methods of entry, tactics, anything?” Her voice raises with each item on her list.

“No details until the last minute means we’re less likely to be dropped in the shit,” Michael says, finishing the last of his whiskey and standing up, as Lester struggles to his feet. “How many of Arthur’s plans fell through when he plotted everything to perfection?”

“A few,” Morgana admits. “Never Uther’s, though. He was unstoppable.”

Morgana’s tone is almost sad, and Michael looks at her for a moment before he redirects his attention. “C’mon, Lester, want me to drop you home? I gotta pick up Mandy from her fuckin’ brunch bullshit.”

“Oh Mikey, and you’re a stranger to day drinking, aren’t ya?” Trevor calls after him. Michael flicks him the bird before he disappears with Lester.

“Damn, Morgana, I was gonna say,” Franklin says as they slowly walk their way through the house to the front porch. “You know that girl who was with Amanda when I got here?”

Morgana answers cautiously. “Yeah, Gwen. She’s my best friend.”

“You think I could get her digits? I mean, I don’t know her but she has a great smile, and...”

“Aww, our Frankie’s got a crush!” Trevor teases, stepping out into the sunshine.

“Man, fuck you,” Franklin says defensively. “She seems like a nice girl! It’s hard to find a nice girl in the business.”

“Well...” Morgana says. “She’s not exactly _in_ the business, but she knows enough to not be fazed by it.” Morgana thinks of how long Gwen’s been pining after Arthur, and her hand twitches for her phone. If Franklin takes her on a date and treats her nicely, maybe Gwen will finally realise that she deserves to be loved, and not tossed around like a piece of meat by Arthur. “Just, tell her that I know you from bodyguarding or something, okay?” Morgana says as she pulls her phone out. “Keep it vague.”

“Promise,” Franklin smiles. Morgana has a feeling he’d get along really well with Gwen. They both seem very honest and good people... despite everything. “Thank you.”

“Alright, alright, she gets the point,” Trevor says, putting his hand in the small of Morgana’s back and guiding her towards his truck. “We got a four hour drive back to Sandy Shores, and I wanna get there before it starts raining _again_.”

Morgana feels a little bit of guilt run through her at the thought of the rain just last night, and pointing a gun at Trevor’s head. “I just want to get out of this city,” Morgana says. “I don’t feel safe anymore.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Trevor says with a steely determination, looking straight into Morgana’s eyes.

Morgana believes him.

*

The stars shine brightly over Sandy Shores and the Alamo Sea, unhindered by the orange glow of Los Santos, far away over the mountains. The air is warm enough for Morgana to not catch a chill, but with Trevor lying at her side and his warmth bleeding into her skin, she’d have a hard time doing so anyway.

The drive back to Sandy Shores had been quiet, with Morgana contemplating the mission ahead, running calculations and floor plans over and over in her mind until they’d arrived at Trevor’s trailer and she hadn’t even noticed.

“You still thinkin’?” Trevor asks softly, propping himself up on one elbow. Sensing Morgana’s stress, he’d driven them up onto one of the hills in the desert, distant from traffic and people, before spreading a blanket out on the ground and hoping the sunset would improve her mood.

They’d spent an hour or so discussing the layout of the office, the best way to ensure all of Arthur’s men would be there, how not to kill civilians. They’d talked until Morgana nearly cried with frustration, when the sun had long set and the stars had emerged, brilliant and steady.

“Yeah,” Morgana whispers. Trevor sweeps her hair out of her face, curling it around his fingers. “I’m just...” Morgana exhales, closing her eyes and readying herself for her next words, those that are truly eating away at her insides. “I’m so scared. Not of failing, but of losing Franklin or Michael or... or _you_.”

“Shh,” Trevor says as softly as he can, pressing a gentle kiss to the crease between Morgana’s eyebrows. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve managed to survive so far, I think I’ll survive this next one.”

Morgana sits up to face Trevor. “How do you know, though? How can you be so certain?” She fists her hand in the material of Trevor’s t-shirt, pulling it close to her. “I’ve lost everything. _Everything_. I can’t lose you now.”

Trevor’s face crumbles at the hysterical note in Morgana’s voice. “I’m not gonna convince you, am I?” he asks, more to himself than to Morgana. “I’m gonna have to distract you, then.”

“What?” Morgana asks, barely releasing her hold on Trevor’s top.

“Look at all of these stars, right,” Trevor says, looping an arm around Morgana’s shoulders and pulling her closer, his other hand gesturing to the heavens. “There’s probably about two thousand of them up there at the moment. Some of them are already dead, but we can still see them - they’ve lived on after they’ve died, y’know?”

“If this is you trying to tell me that it’ll be okay if you die, because I’ll still remember you, then you can fuck off,” Morgana says softly, leaning her head against Trevor’s shoulder and looking up at the stars. She reaches for Trevor’s hand.

“No, no, that’s not it. Look. All those stars out there, we’re looking at an area of about 20 quadrillion miles. Feel small yet?” Trevor asks, and if Morgana isn’t mistaken, it’s in an excited tone, the tone he usually reserves for talking about killing people.

“Kinda,” Morgana says, beginning to smile.

“Yet our tiny planet focuses on just one star, and it’s a pretty shit star, it’s not even a big star... That’s not the point. The point is, we’re so fuckin’ small compared to this whole universe, the whole _galaxy_ , and these stars have been around for years and years. We have so little time here, we have to just live it to its fullest. No regrets.”

Morgana lifts her head to look at Trevor, his face almost innocent as he looks up to a sky he’s clearly studied and loved for a while. “Never had you down as an astronomer,” she says lightly, squeezing his hand.

“When I was a kid, before I realised how hard it was to become an astronaut and settled for bein’ a pilot instead, I learned a lot about space. Some facts just stick with you, and some habits die hard. I like knowin’ shit about science, and I’m good math and numbers, that kinda thing,” Trevor says, tearing his eyes away from the sky to glance at Morgana. “No joke about that one this time?” he asks defensively.

“It’s nice to see you passionate about something which doesn’t involve people getting hurt,” she says quietly, pressing a kiss against his temple. Trevor sighs, the tension leaving his shoulders as it so often does when Morgana kisses him. “Is that Orion there, will he protect us?”

Trevor makes a noise of disgust. “Orion, according to the myths, which I might’ve _skim read_ once or twice, boasted he was going to kill every beast on Earth. So he’s not going to protect us, he’s more likely to kill us.”

Morgana doesn’t let her negative thoughts overcome her again. “He sounds like you, then,” she jokes uneasily.

“Maybe. You’d be Canopus, though.”

“Which one’s that?” Morgana asks, craning her neck.

“You won’t see it, it’s too far south. It’s the second brightest star in the sky, and it’s used for navigation. It guides people,” Trevor says, looking to Morgana.

“And I’m Canopus, _why_?” Morgana asks, bewilderment creeping into her smile.

“Because you’re bright, and... you keep people... me, you keep _me_ on the right track. You guide me.”

“Aww,” Morgana says softly, reaching to cup Trevor’s jaw. She draws her thumb through the stubble there. “Why only the second brightest, though?”

“Because the brightest is Sirius, and I didn’t think you’d like to be associated with being a dog,” Trevor admits.

Morgana laughs loudly, and Trevor jumps at the sound; she hadn’t laughed all day. “Well, I can be a bit of a bitch sometimes,” she admits.

“Eh, I don’t think you’re too bad,” Trevor says, looking into her eyes before pressing his lips against hers. The remaining tension in Morgana’s body evaporates into the air as Trevor holds her close, barely advancing the kiss, simply just being there for her.

Trevor presses his forehead against Morgana’s. “I’m taking you out for the day tomorrow. Get you away from all this bullshit, so you can actually have fun for once. When was the last time you had fun, _real_ fun?” Trevor asks, suddenly intense.

Morgana blinks. “This last week, pretty much,” she says, shrugging.

Trevor sighs. “I’m still taking you out though, you impossible, _incredible_ woman,” Trevor says, leaning in to kiss Morgana again. This time, Morgana laughs into the kiss, allowing herself to fall back onto the blanket and be kissed like there’s no tomorrow. A thought occurs to her.

“Trev,” she says quietly during the kiss, prompting Trevor to pull away slightly. “Do you... do you think this has been too fast?” she asks.

“No,” Trevor says without hesitation. “No, I don’t think so. I think it’s... wait, do _you_ think it was too fast? Because fast and hard is the only way I know how to live.”

“Yes. No,” Morgana says, and Trevor pulls away a bit further. Morgana reaches out quickly to pull him close again. “No regrets, remember? Meeting you has been the best thing that’s happened to me. Ever.”

“We can both say that, Princess; we’ve both got daddy issues,” Trevor says flippantly. Morgana glares at him for a moment. “Up until now it was... I had a long, _long_ history with Michael, which I’ll tell you all about someday, in gory detail, but now? It’s you. And the money and glory could never match the fact that you actually give a fuck about me.”

“I think we’re probably past the _giving a fuck_ stage by now, don’t you?” Morgana says softly, before she yawns a little. “Can we go home? I really just need a warm shower and you spooning me right now.”

“You know, for this self-confessed assassin bitch you claim to be, you’re awful _needy_ ,” Trevor jokes, helping Morgana up off the blanket.

“Don’t you start,” Morgana smiles dangerously, and Trevor grins right back.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more smut for you because I'm a benevolent god,

_“Morgs!”_

_Morgana stops running and turns on her heel, sprinting back through the smoke-filled corridor towards that voice. She finds Trevor pushing one of the hostages aside. “This way,” he shouts, beginning to fight his way down the hall, despite the low visibility and screaming alarms. “Stay close or--”_

_Morgana’s world narrows to the spike of pain in her back, sending her crumpling down to the ground, a shout dying on her lips. “Morgs?” Trevor asks as more gunshots ring out, and Morgana reaches for him as he fires at the assailant. Trevor falls to his knees at Morgana’s side. “No, no, no,” he says to himself, and Morgana clutches at his black sweater. “You can’t,” he chokes out._

_“Trevor,” she whispers. “Don’t leave me.”_

_Trevor is sobbing now, alarms and smoke forgotten as he runs his gloved hand over Morgana’s head, clothed in a balaclava. He pulls it off gently, pulling her up in his arms to look at her face. “Don’t you dare go. I love you too much for you to go.”_

_“Morgana?”_

“Morgana!”

Morgana sits bolt upright in bed, chest heaving and face covered in sweat. It takes her a couple of seconds to realise that she’s in Trevor’s trailer, not the Arcadius building, and that the man in question is sat next to her. “Finally. I thought you’d never wake up.”

Morgana touches her face to make sure it’s real, and she realises that not only was she sweating, she was crying too. “I... You were crying, and I’d been shot,” she says, trying to calm her breathing. “Sometimes I have dreams that come true, and...”

“Well,” Trevor says softly. “There’s no way I’m letting that happen.” He holds Morgana close against him, drying her tears with his thumb sweeping across her cheeks. “Firstly, I wouldn’t be _crying_ , I’d be beating whoever shot you with their own severed fucking limbs.”

Morgana makes a small noise, and Trevor holds her a little tighter. “I’d cry later,” he says softly. “Much later. Probably for the rest of my life.” Trevor unties the bandage still looped around Morgana’s collarbone, putting it aside. “That’s healing nicely now, I think it’d be good to give it some air.”

“Thanks.” Feeling safe in Trevor’s arms, Morgana sighs, looking about the room. She can see sunlight attempting to peek through the blinds. “It’s morning,” she says quietly.

“We can go back to sleep, if ya like,” Trevor says, before his hands begin to stray. “Or we could, y’know, stay _awake_.” One warm palm cups one of Morgana’s arse cheeks. “You can’t have nightmares if you don’t sleep, if I keep you sufficiently _distracted_...”

“Trevor,” Morgana breathes, the idea of going back to sleep completely forgotten.

“I could talk to ya, tell you all the things you never knew about your body,” he continues, voice deep and honey-sweet. Morgana’s eyes close of her own accord, her tongue licking her lips. “Like the way you’ve gone limp against me now, just because I’ve got my arms around you. Ah, ah, no moving,” Trevor warns. He twists Morgana up and around, and Morgana is eventually settled in Trevor’s lap, her face in the crook of his neck. “And how, when I touch your skin,” he says, moving a hand to Morgana’s ass, clad in just her panties, “you get goose bumps.”

Morgana can feel herself becoming more aroused at Trevor’s words. Where the sun finds the cracks in the blinds, it falls against the bed, warm on her legs and feet. “Go on,” she says softly, pulling back to see Trevor’s face. His pupils are wide, and he licks his lips.

“The way you look at me,” he murmurs. “You look at me like you’re gonna eat me alive, like some kind of creature, some nymph,” he utters, and Morgana brushes her lips against Trevor’s. She shifts her weight forward, and she can feel how hard Trevor is between her legs. Trevor groans. “You drive me fuckin’ _wild_ , Morgs. I’d do so much for you, kill so many people for you, you…”

Morgana takes Trevor’s face between her hands and she kisses him, hard. He moans in surprise, hands going to her hips and then slowly sliding round to her ass. With a little coaxing from Trevor, Morgana rolls her hips forward, starting up an excruciatingly slow rhythm. “I love the way you look after me,” Morgana says, leaning her forehead against Trevor’s. He exhales sharply through his nose, eyes shut. “You treat me like a fucking princess, like I’m the most important thing in the world.”

“You say it like you aren’t,” Trevor drawls, pouring meaning into every word as he opens his eyes. Morgana could drown in them, they’re so dark. She can feel Trevor throb between her legs as she stills, and her pause allows her to realise quite how wet she’s become. She loops her arms around Trevor’s neck, kissing him slowly, tongue exploring his mouth at a leisurely pace.

“Please,” Trevor begs against her lips, voice wrecked and rumbling in his chest. He lifts the hem of Morgana’s sleep t-shirt up and over her head, exposing her skin. “You look like a fucking angel,” Trevor says, breaking the kiss to drink in the sight of her, straddling his lap in nothing but her black lace panties. “I feel like I’m high when I’m with you, and I ain’t been high in weeks. It’s like you’re some kinda hallucination.”

“I’m real,” Morgana says quietly, drawing a finger down Trevor’s chest. She kisses his neck and the _CUT HERE_ tattoo, and he melts underneath her.

“I love the way you, you,” Trevor mumbles, as Morgana leans towards the nightstand, searching for a condom. “You just... fuck, I’d kill so many people for you," he drawls, and Morgana bites her lip.

Trevor’s eyes are closed, head tipped back against the wall when Morgana rights herself again, a condom in hand. She shuffles down his legs a little, Trevor’s hands trailing from her ass to her knees. “Where you goin’?” Trevor asks dumbly, eyes opening a little.

“You sound drunk,” Morgana says with a smile. “Or high. Maybe both.”

“Always am, when I’m around you,” Trevor says, a mischievous smile on his face. Morgana pulls his dick out of his briefs, and Trevor shifts to allow Morgana to pull them down to his knees, before she takes his cock in her hands. “When ya touch me…” Trevor says, keening a little. His neck and chest are slick with sweat, the tattoos there glistening. Morgana rolls the condom on deftly, Trevor moaning at the sensation of her fingers ghosting his dick.

The sun is warm on Morgana’s back as she straddles Trevor’s hips again. She takes him in hand and he helps guide her, until she can feel Trevor slowly entering her. “This will never get old,” she says with a light sigh of appreciation, voice raspy.

“Every day, Morgs,” Trevor groans as Morgana sinks down as far as she can, until she’s seated once more. “We could do this every day of our lives, just this, once we’ve got rid of those fuckers.”

Morgana rolls her hips forward. “King and Queen of Los Santos, you and me,” Morgana says, tipping her head back. “We could rule the fucking world.”

“You sound so sexy like that,” Trevor moans, reaching out to play with Morgana’s breasts. “Keep talking.”

“People would hear our names and they’d tremble, Trevor,” she says, leaning in close to drawl the words in Trevor’s ear. “A force to be reckoned with. We’d be _terrifying_.” Morgana speeds up her movements, Trevor beginning to pant as he tries to match her rhythm. “Trevor and Morgana Philips, kingpins of Los Santos.”

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” Trevor shouts, gripping Morgana’s waist hard as he bucks up into her, eyes screwed shut. He comes, sounding something scarily close to a wolf’s howl, holding Morgana in place before he slumps back against the headboard. “Holy shit.”

Morgana slowly stops rocking, her hips beginning to ache but her itch not quite scratched. She lifts herself off Trevor, falling to the side of him on the bed and reaching down between her legs.

“That’s _my_ job,” Trevor growls possessively, looping his fingers around Morgana’s wrist. He begins to move down the bed.

“Hurry the fuck up then,” she urges as Trevor settles between her legs. She grins devilishly when Trevor looks up at her and does the same, running her fingers through his hair. “I’m so wet for you,” she says, falling back into the pillows. Dirty talk was normally something she used with her marks as a tool, but with Trevor, Morgana’s actually enjoying it and it comes naturally. Her breathing hitches as Trevor’s tongue gets to work on her clit, one finger sliding inside her easily. “Love it when you touch me like this.”

“Fuck, you might get me hard again if you keep talkin’ like that,” Trevor says, mostly mumbling around her pussy. He shifts his weight on the bed so his other hand can reach a faster tempo on her clit.

“That’s it,” she breathes, clutching at the bedsheets. “Fucking… _please_.”

“C’mon Morgs,” Trevor drawls, pulling his mouth away. “Come for me. Come for Daddy.”

“Trevor!” Morgana gasps as she hits her peak, eyes rolling back into her head as Trevor ducks down to lap up everything she has to offer. “Okay,” she mumbles when Trevor’s tongue turns painful as she grows sensitive, pushing against the top of his head. “Christ.”

“That good, eh?” Trevor asks as he crawls up the bed again, laying down next to Morgana. He pulls the covers off the floor and up over them both.

Morgana turns to him with an eyebrow raised. “ _Daddy_?” she asks, unable to keep the smile off her face.

“You _liked_ it,” Trevor teases, reaching towards Morgana. She flicks his hands away playfully. “Oh, come on, it was either that or Uncle T. Anyway, where did _Morgana Philips_ come from?”

Morgana allows herself to be pulled into Trevor’s embrace. “It’s less of a reach than you being my _daddy_ ,” Morgana retorts, making a face.

“Did you mean it?” Trevor asks, suddenly intense.

“Depends if you meant the daddy thing,” Morgana jokes, keeping the tone light.

“Morgs,” Trevor pleads, a little desperately.

Morgana studies his serious expression for a few moments. “Mmm, maybe one day,” she says, settling down into the bed again. They lie together, hands joined over Morgana’s hip. “No rush, is there?”

“No,” Trevor replies, and Morgana can hear his smile. She runs her fingers along his thigh. “If you tickle me I’ll...”

“You’re ticklish?” Morgana asks, a lilt in her voice. She turns her head to look at Trevor. “Really? That’s your kryptonite?”

“You’ll get a black eye if ya try finding out,” Trevor mumbles into the pillow, the corner of his mouth tilted up in a smile and his eyes already closed. Morgana laughs quietly to herself, settling herself for sleep again. After a few minutes of silence, Morgana hears Trevor’s breathing even out. When she looks at his face, she can see he’s already fast asleep.

“Can’t wait ‘til _I_ get old,” she murmurs under her breath, “one orgasm might finish me off.” She kisses Trevor’s forehead, the crease between his eyebrows smooths out as she does so. Morgana spends a while staring at the ceiling, half-wishing she could fall asleep as easily as Trevor does, half-wanting to stay awake for the rest of her life to avoid her cursed nightmares.

Morgana’s cell begins to buzz from the night stand. She groans, reaching out to pick it up. “Hello?”

“Heh, Morgana. It’s still kinda weird having your number in my phone.”

Morgana looks over her shoulder at Trevor, before pressing the phone to her ear and a hand in frustration against her forehead. “Lester,” she deadpans quietly. Lester clears his throat, sensing her mood.

“I need to go over some details for the job, face to face,” he explains. “I know you don’t want to be in LS right now but the buses don’t run out to Sandy Shores. I’m in El Burro Heights, I’m pretty sure Arthur won’t come looking for you there.”

Morgana looks over to Trevor’s sleeping face. “I’ll be there soon.”

*

The address Lester texted Morgana leads to a tiny one-storey house in El Burro Heights, not dissimilar from her own home in Mirror Park. However, hers doesn’t have quite as many satellite dishes, radio aerials or security cameras as Lester’s does, and the whole place resembles some kind of prison with the amount of protective fencing around it.

She gets out of Trevor’s Bodhi, her own Carbonizzare parked safely in his garage as of a couple of hours ago, where it couldn’t possibly be recognised. Slamming the truck door shut, she pulls the hood of her hoodie over her face, sunglasses shielding her from possible nosy neighbours. When she gets to the door she presses the buzzer, and notices a security camera in the corner of the porch twitch towards her. “Fuck you, Lester,” she mutters under her breath, before the door unlocks noisily and she pushes it open.

Morgana is reminded of those television programmes about obsessive hoarders when she walks inside. There are brown boxes of files _everywhere_ , and it takes her a second to work out which direction she should be heading in. “In here!” Lester calls eventually, and Morgana rolls her eyes, making her way through the dark and dingy house to the back room.

“Ah, hello,” Lester says as Morgana appears, wheeling around in a basic-looking wheelchair to face her. He’s sat in front of a computer set-up that looks much too technical for Morgana’s knowledge. “Take a, uh, you can sit on the bed, if you like.”

“I’ll stand, thanks,” Morgana says curtly, more interested in the large cork board full of photographs of people she’s spent half her life with. The floorboards creak beneath her as she walks over to it.

“Suit yourself,” Lester mutters, turning back to the computer screen. “We could be here a while.”

“This is more than I told you,” Morgana says, eyes focussed on the cork board. There are birth dates and heights and weights of people on there, facts she had never known herself.

“I’m good at my job, or so I like to think,” Lester says, wheeling to turn to Morgana again. “Can you flip the board around? There’s a blueprint on the back.”

Morgana shoots Lester an exasperated look that lasts all of half a second, before she awkwardly picks the board off the easel and turns it over. A large, industry-standard blueprint of the basement and top two floors of the Arcadius building is pinned on the reverse. “Where did you get this?”

“Like I said, I’m good at my job,” Lester says, sounding slightly offended. He wheels his chair over to next to where she stands, picking up his walking stick to use as a pointer. “I got Franklin to acquire these plans for me a few days ago. The building is about ten years old, Pendragon was one of the first businesses to take up occupancy. I just need you to tell me if there are any features that have changed, or anything I should know about.”

Morgana scans the plans. “You want me to put labels on these, whose office is whose?”

“That would be helpful,” Lester says, and she chooses to ignore the slight twang of sarcasm in his voice. He hands her a permanent marker, and she gets to work.

_Arthur’s Office_

_Morgana’s Office_

_Uther’s Office_

“Uther’s office is empty at the moment,” Morgana says, labelling other rooms like _kitchen_ and _private bathroom_. “No furniture or anything in there, as far as I know.” Lester gives her a look. “Arthur keeps it under lock and key.”

“So there could be weapons, armour, anything in there. Hmm,” Lester says. “I could do with some reconnaissance on that.”

“No,” Morgana says quickly, her voice betraying her panic.

“ _Obviously_ not you! Give me some credit,” Lester says, rolling his eyes. “Some fresh meat, one of the guys we’ve worked with before, perhaps. Get him going in as a fire inspector, something that requires access to all rooms, pressure Arthur to comply with threats of a court injunction and a mess in the media... this could work,” he mumbles to himself. “That’s fine. Anything else?”

Morgana looks back at the board, before drawing on it. “There’s a small spiral staircase in the centre of the office, here. Allows us to go between the two floors of the office without having to go back to the stairs or lifts. Elevators,” she corrects herself. “Access to the helipad is still via the main staircase, but the Pendragon helicopter has been away for repairs for a month or so now.”

“Or,” Lester drawls. “We could chase Arthur up onto the roof, giving him no choice but to fall. Takes the blame off us.”

Morgana stares at Lester. “No. We’re going to all this trouble to raid the place, we don’t then put it down to accident.”

Lester laughs under his breath. “I think it’s more to do with your little vendetta against him, and that you want to see the light fade from his eyes, or something like that.” He laughs again, wheeling himself back to his computer. “I don’t blame you.”

“So is there any--” Morgana starts, before her cell starts ringing loudly in her handbag. She fishes it out, Trevor’s name flashing up on the screen. “Hello?”

“Where _are_ you?” Trevor shouts, voice loud enough through the phone for Lester to jump, and Morgana to pull it away from her ear slightly. “I just woke up, you’re not here, and my truck’s gone. Are you okay?”

Trevor manages to go through about a dozen different emotions in nearly as many seconds. “I’m at Lester’s,” Morgana says, walking to the other side of the room from the man in question. “He called first thing this morning, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Trevor exhales loudly at the other end of the phone. “Jesus, just... just fuckin’ tell me next time, okay? I was _this close_ to calling Michael and Franklin and driving to LS to fuck Arthur up myself.”

Morgana smiles a little, despite the heavy feeling in her heart. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

“It’s fine,” Trevor says, and he doesn’t quite mean it, but Morgana’s sure he’ll be alright by the time she’s back in Sandy Shores again. “Just, get home safe, okay? And don’t let Lester touch you funny.”

“I can _hear_ you,” Lester sneers quietly.

“See you soon,” Morgana says before hanging up, and putting her phone back in her bag.

The silence stretches between her and Lester, before he clears his throat. “He’s dangerous, you know,” Lester says, his voice suddenly loud amidst the quiet.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Morgana says sarcastically, crossing the room to sit heavily on the edge of Lester’s bed. She sighs. “I know he’s _dangerous_ , Lester, I’m not stupid.”

“No, you don’t know. You really, _really_ don’t,” Lester replies, and his chilling tone raises goose bumps on Morgana’s arms. “You have _no_ idea.” She runs her hands through her hair in frustration.

“And you have no _idea_ how dangerous _I_ can be, Lester,” she says quickly. “No idea. We’re all dangerous, aren’t we? We’re all some kind of threat to society. Who says I’m not a threat to Trevor, if Trevor is supposedly a threat to me?”

Lester remains silent, staring at Morgana with his mouth open slightly. She stands up, brushing her jeans down. “Call me if you need me.”

“We haven’t spoken about the second phase yet!” Lester calls after her as she makes it to the entryway. She turns around when she can hear him wheeling after her.

“Yeah? Because I’m sure you’ve got all the information you actually need. You just wanted to call me here to warn me off Trevor,” she snaps. “And I’m getting pissed off at people assuming I can’t make judgements for myself.”

Morgana slams the door behind her as she leaves, striding to Trevor’s truck and revving the engine once she’s settled inside. She guns it out of the alleyway and onto the freeway, headed for Sandy Shores once more.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur demonstrates just how cold he can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but heavy chapter. You guys are gonna hate me...

Arthur looks up briefly from his computer when the door of his office closes. Seeing who it is, he minimizes the current spreadsheet and sits back in his chair. “Lance, what a pleasant surprise,” he says, softly and sincerely. “Take a seat,” he gestures, when Lance hovers awkwardly.

Lance sits down, taking a moment to fiddle with his tie. He looks towards the windows, the buildings and blue sky beyond them.

“What can I do for you?” Arthur asks. The warmth seems to be lacking from his tone. “I don’t often see you in here.”

“I’m...” Lance looks over his shoulder towards the door, before he leans in slightly. “I’m worried about Guinevere.”

“Gwen?” Arthur asks, before he barks out a laugh. “Why?”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Lance snaps. Arthur promptly shuts his mouth, eyes wide; his usually tame dog has suddenly found its bite. “I know the way she looks at you. I know you’ve been speaking to her a lot more recently, after weeks - _months_ \- of giving her the cold shoulder. Of brushing her away like she’s shit on your shoe.”

“She’s doing a bit of personal work for me,” Arthur says, and he keeps on speaking when Lance’s eyes narrow. “ _Not_ like that. About the Morgana problem.”

“So you’re turning her on her best friend? She’s a nice girl, Arthur. She doesn’t deserve all the emotional shit you put her through day in, day out, all because you know she has a weak spot for you.”

Arthur stands up suddenly. “And I know that’s exactly why you’re here, Lance, it’s because of _your_ weak spot for _her_.” Lance begins to turn a shade of red. “Well guess what? Her last report to me was that she’s dating one of Morgana’s new _friends_.”

Lance’s face crumples as Arthur crooks his fingers in air quotations around the word. Lance stands up, adjusting his tie again before clearing his throat. “Well. I hope he’s at least twice the man you are. Someone that she actually deserves.”

“Your emotions make you weak,” Arthur says coldly. “Forget about her, or I’ll be sure to find a way to _make_ you forget her.”

The threat hangs in the air between them. Lance’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I’m done for the day.” He turns on his heel and storms out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Arthur sighs, before sitting back down in his chair. He picks up the phone, casually dialling an extension number. “Gwaine? Is Merlin with you?” He pauses. “Great. Send him to me.”

Arthur puts the phone down, and he waits.

*

Trevor paces up and down his yard, the sun beginning to set out in the west. Every time he gets to the end Ron is standing in, Trevor reaches towards him, as if he’s going to hit him, or choke him, before turning back around and walking away again.

“Trevor, c’mon,” Ron pleads, after the umpteenth round. “She’s probably stuck in traffic.”

“She should be _here_ ,” Trevor all but roars, swinging towards Ron but at the last minute punching the trellis of his porch instead. The wood splinters, and Trevor’s hand is bloodied when he pulls it away.

“Look, boss,” Ron starts, and Trevor growls lowly. “I know now’s not a good time--”

“ _Ron_ ,” Trevor drawls in a warning tone.

“--b-but I really, _really_ could use your help for a couple of things with Trevor Philips Industries! I know you’ve been busy these past couple of weeks with your new girlfriend--” Trevor growls loudly and Ron continues, stuttering “--but I can’t do it all myself! You’re the best after all!”

Trevor wipes his hand with the bottom of his t-shirt. “The best, eh?” Trevor says, a small smile gracing his face for the first time that evening. “Y’know Ron, flattery will get you a long way in life but you would be better just suckin’ me off.”

“I-- I thought you had Morgana to do that now,” Ron says, and Trevor quickly gets up in his face.

“You do _not_ talk about her like that!” Trevor shouts, before he suddenly twists his head away, ears picking up a noise in the distance. “That’s my truck,” he whispers, before storming off.

“What are you...?” Ron asks before he sees the lights of the Bodhi swing around the corner, Trevor crossing the yard to stand at the edge of the road. Trevor clenches and unclenches his fists as Morgana pulls up, cutting the engine.

He watches her get out of the truck and walk around the front of it to stand before him. His tongue has dried up in his mouth, and his knees are weak because Morgana has come back to him, she’s _real_.

“I’m sorry,” Morgana pleads, before she throws herself against Trevor’s chest, wrapping her arms tight around his torso and burying her face in his t-shirt. “I won’t do it again.”

“If I weren’t so concerned for your fuckin’ _safety_ ,” Trevor mumbles into her hair, holding her close. “It wouldn’t bother me so much.” He breathes in her scent, vanilla and something else, something he’s quickly learnt to associate with Morgana.

“Trevor, I, uh--”

“ _What_?” Trevor shouts, turning his head towards Ron, who is awkwardly fidgeting on the spot.

“You know I said I needed your help?” Ron asks. “I need it in, uh, about twelve minutes down at the lab. Chef’s got some new equipment being delivered and the Lost have got their eyes on it.”

Trevor looks to Morgana, who steps back to hold his hands, swinging them between their bodies. “You go on ahead, I can wait here.”

“No,” Trevor says immediately. “You’re coming with.” Morgana sighs, and Trevor rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to do anything, you can just sit there and look pretty.”

Morgana smiles, a shadow of her usual self. Trevor can tell that she’s tired, both emotionally and physically, but he can’t let her out of his sight right now, no matter how shitty he knows that sounds.

“I do that anyway,” she says, rolling her eyes a little before opening the passenger door of the Bodhi. “Let’s go, then.”

“She’s certainly something, Trevor,” Ron says as he passes Trevor, climbing into the back of the truck.

“One more word, Ron, and I swear to God…” Trevor mutters, but his threat hangs in the air as he gets into the truck, looking at Morgana sat smiling in the passenger seat, looking out towards the sunset.

But really, he can’t help but agree.

The trip is a short one, a quick drive down the street to Trevor’s main meth lab, one that also fronts as a liquor store. Trevor parks the truck around the back, turning to Morgana. “You coming up?”

“Up?” Morgana asks.

“Yeah, the lab’s upstairs. We’ll be coming and going, moving boxes, plugging bikers, you know the drill,” Trevor shrugs his shoulders. “You’ll be plenty safe upstairs. Won’t she, Ron?”

“Yes, of-of course she will, Trevor,” Ron replies quickly.

Morgana nods. “I just don’t feel like getting my hands dirty tonight, I guess,” she says quietly. “After today… I just wanna save myself for the big day, y’know?”

Trevor laughs darkly. “The amount of times I’ve heard that…” he mutters, before he gets out of the truck. “I’ll show you up.”

The store is dingy as they enter, illuminated by sporadic neon signs. “This isn’t the profit maker of the business, if you were wonderin’,” Trevor says as they walk behind the counter.

“I wasn’t,” Morgana deadpans, looking at the crates of beer stacked everywhere, seemingly the only product they sell. They head up a narrow, twisting staircase to a dark suite of rooms, empty aside from an elaborate methamphetamine set-up. A single lightbulb lights each room dimly.

“Wow,” Morgana says, eyebrows raised. “This is the kind of stuff you only see on cable shows.”

Trevor shoots her a look. “We were at this _way_ before those amateurs were, Princess.” He gestures out towards an open door. “That goes onto the back balcony, you should be out of the way there.”

“Okay, I’ll go wait outside,” Morgana says, giving Trevor a quick hug. “Stay safe,” she whispers in his ear, before she kisses him on the cheek and walks outside, leaving him a little stunned in her wake.

The desert air is beginning to chill now, and from the balcony Morgana can see the expanse of the Alamo Sea. She can hear the waves against the shore, and she relaxes for a moment, perhaps for the first time since Lester’s call that morning. Above her, the stars slowly come alive, and she remembers her evening spent learning about them with Trevor. The man in question is yelling at Ron from out the front of the store, a faint sound on the wind, and Morgana smiles a little.

It takes her a couple of seconds to realise her phone is buzzing in her handbag. She digs for it, pulling it out and freezing when she sees the name on the screen. Heart in her throat, and with a quick look over her shoulder, she accepts the call.

“ _Merlin_?”

“Morgana,” Merlin says.

Morgana lets out the breath she was holding, walking back across the balcony to lean against the wall of the building. “Is Arthur with you?”

“No,” Merlin says surely. He sounds quite coherent for once, and Morgana imagines him in his apartment, actually looking after himself for a change. It fills Morgana’s heart with hope, that maybe there _is_ a future for him.

“How come you’re ringing me?” Morgana asks, and she can’t keep the curiosity out of her voice. “I can’t stay on the line too long.”

“I know,” Merlin says. He pauses for a second, and Morgana hears him exhale. She wonders if he’s smoking; he used to smoke when they were younger and just starting out in the city. Morgana would kill for a cigarette right now. Merlin takes a breath. “I… I miss you.”

Morgana’s jaw drops, but then she closes her eyes and composes herself. “How do you miss me?” she asks slowly, in the kind of monotone Merlin won’t be able to confuse for anything else.

“I miss…” Merlin clears his throat. “I miss the way you used to hold me, and… you telling me it was gonna be okay. And I miss holding your hand, and, and being yours.”

Morgana inhales shakily, her eyes welling up a little. “Merlin… that’s… very sweet, but…”

“I love you, Morgana,” Merlin says, and he sounds like he’s just as choked up as she is. “I never stopped loving you. I’ve loved you since Dublin, and… I can’t stop.”

“Merlin,” Morgana says, a hand over her mouth. The tears finally fall from her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I couldn’t… I…” Merlin sobs down the line, and Morgana screws her eyes shut, fingers gripping her phone hard. “You had so much going for you… you couldn’t have been with someone like me.”

“You… you fucking _eejit_ ,” Morgana says, bringing up a nickname she’d buried long ago regarding Merlin. Merlin chuckles once down the phone, and the sound makes Morgana bite her lip and think, for just a moment. “Merlin… I have to go. But we’re going to sort this out. We’re going to sort _you_ out. You’re very important to me, okay?”

Merlin is silent for a couple of moments, save for some sniffing noises. “I love you,” he says.

“ _Slán_ ,” Morgana utters, a parting phrase from her childhood that she only ever uses with those she loves. It means safety, and she looks up at the stars to send them a prayer.

The line goes dead.

In an office in a skyscraper in Los Santos, Merlin puts his cell phone down on Arthur’s desk, his hands shaking. “Did I do good?” he asks Arthur, turning to look at the man standing over him.

Arthur doesn’t lower the pistol he’s holding; it’s been pointing at Merlin since he first dialled the call. “You were great,” Arthur says solemnly, before he pulls the trigger.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shit's fucked, man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end now!

Franklin runs his hands over his face. “Damn, girl,” he mumbles. “Those were some serious moves.”

Gwen giggles, rolling over in her bed and propping herself up on her elbow. The sheets are purple, and well rumpled. “That good, huh?”

“Shit, I…” Franklin laughs to himself. “I’m speechless, babe. You got me.”

Gwen grins, moving to curl herself into Franklin’s side. “Sure have,” she mumbles, taking Franklin’s hand between her own and kissing it. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Me too,” Franklin says, smiling. “If you hadn’t been at Michael’s house that day, man…”

“I’m sure we would’ve met,” Gwen says, idly playing with Franklin’s fingers, rolling onto her back. Her eyes are beginning to close, sleepy in a post-orgasmic haze. “One way or another.”

Franklin chuckles. “You seem pretty sure,” he says, looking over to Gwen.

“I would’ve had to meet Michael at some point,” she mumbles. Franklin’s brow furrows.

“Michael? What’s he got to do with it?”

Gwen sits up suddenly, putting a bit of distance between her and Franklin, eyes opening wide. “Nothing. I just, uh, Amanda, she would’ve wanted me to meet him.”

Franklin narrows his eyes. “Girls like Amanda don’t introduce _other_ girls to their cheatin’ husbands,” he states, voice hard. “What ain’t you tellin’ me?”

Gwen picks up the bedsheet, covering her breasts with it belatedly. “Nothing! Nothing, Frank, I swear,” she says quickly.

“Do you even know Amanda?” Franklin asks coldly, getting out of Gwen’s bed and finding his boxers, pulling them on. “I hate this fuckin’ game.”

“Yes! Frank, what are you doing?” Gwen asks, voice rising higher and higher.

“Why you even askin’ me that?” Franklin asks, throwing his arms out to his sides in frustration. “You’re tryna play a player. You _know_ what I’m doin’, I’m getting the fuck out of here, before I get fuckin’ clapped.”

“You’re not--” Gwen starts. “No one’s going to kill you!” she says in a high-pitched voice.

“Yeah?” Franklin asks, pulling on his jeans. “I told you fuckin’ _everything_ about our plans for Arthur, and you… I thought you actually fuckin’ liked me. Well, shit, guess I was _wrong_.”

Gwen stands up, quickly crossing the room to pull on a robe, as Franklin buttons his jeans and pulls his t-shirt on. “I do, Franklin. I… You’re nice,” she says, getting closer to him. “Really, really, _really_ nice.” Franklin notices there are tears in her eyes. “I won’t go to Arthur,” she says, as Franklin sighs, turning around to put on his sneakers. “I won’t tell him, I’ll, I’ll help you guys out instead! Morgana’s my friend!”

Franklin looks up at Gwen’s hysterical tone. “I can tell.”

“Tell what?” Gwen asks, confused.

Franklin sighs, finished getting dressed. “Just by the way you say his fuckin’ name.” His tone is that of a defeated man. “You don’t care ‘bout me at all, I was just your chance at forgetting _him_.” He sighs again. “Rebound _and_ a fool.” Franklin makes a move for her bedroom door, but Gwen runs to it to block him

“I won’t tell Arthur,” Gwen says. “You can trust me.”

Franklin laughs to himself sadly, before gently pushing past Gwen, heading to the front door of her apartment. “I think the time for trust has long gone, Gwen.”

Gwen is calling his name as the apartment door slams shut. It’s 3am, but Franklin pulls out his phone, knowing one person who will always be ready to take his call.

“Michael. Shit’s fucked, man.”

*

Trevor’s fingertips, calloused from years of working with weapons and bare knuckle fighting, skim over Morgana’s soft skin. She sleeps deeply, turned towards him with her lips parted just so. It’s unlike him to be awake before his bedfellow is, and he’s raking in the opportunity, fingers leaving Morgana’s cheekbone to touch her hair.

There’s so much he wants to say, but he doesn’t have the words, and he’s pretty sure he never will; the last time he opened his heart to someone, they laughed at him and then faked their death a few months later. Trevor wants to tell Morgana how she is his redemption, how in such a short amount of time she’s managed to crawl under his skin, into his heart. He wasn’t even sure if it’d still been beating, before she turned up on his doorstep.

Trevor just wishes that he knew Morgana felt the same.

“Quit watching me.”

Trevor refocuses his attention, looking at Morgana’s face and her one cracked eyelid. “It’s kinda weird,” she mumbles, before she closes her eyes again, a soft smile on her lips.

“Weird’s my _thing_ , Princess, take it or leave it,” Trevor says quietly.

“I’ll take it,” Morgana says, and Trevor smiles, unseen. She stretches, toes brushing against his shins under the blankets as she does so. “What time is it?”

“About midday,” Trevor replies. Morgana opens her eyes, smiling up at Trevor, and he wishes he could have this every day for the rest of his life. “You feeling better today?”

Trevor had found Morgana out on the balcony in tears. He’d accidentally heard enough of the conversation to make his stomach churn, but with Morgana crying he couldn’t think of himself, or his own selfish needs. Trevor held her, protected her, and when the Lost eventually did arrive, he picked them off with a new rage fuelling him.

The drive home had been silent, and they’d both fallen asleep quickly, exhausted in so many ways.

“I wanna take you somewhere nice today,” Trevor says, and Morgana’s eyes open again. “Take your mind off things. You got a bikini with you or somethin’?”

Morgana blinks. “Actually, yes. I, uh… that’s weird. You know I said about, kind of seeing the future?”

Trevor groans. “Don’t tell me the surprise is already ruined.” He runs his hands over his face.

“Um.” Morgana chooses not to mention seeing the beach and the helicopter she’d seen in her dreams. The image sharpens suddenly, and Trevor is holding her close, the both of them covered in sand and seawater. She looks at Trevor. “Not really.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll be a little _spontaneous_ then,” Trevor says, leaning forward to kiss Morgana.

She squirms away with a giggle. “That’s not quite how it works, y’know,” she says with a smirk, starting to slide out from under the covers. “And I need a shower before we go.”

“But we’re going to the beach! You’ll get sand everywhere,” Trevor argues, spoiling his own surprise. Morgana raises an eyebrow at him. “At least, if I have anything to do with it.”

“Better be a private beach then, Trev. The paps love Vespucci,” she grins before she ducks out of the room. Trevor forgets to reply for a couple of moments because he’s busy ogling her ass, just visible beneath the hem of her t-shirt.

“I said we were going somewhere _nice_!” he calls, but the water in the shower is already running. Trevor thinks about those water droplets running over Morgana’s naked body, and he groans again, flopping back onto the mattress and waiting. Whether he’s waiting for his dick to calm down or for Morgana to finish her shower and maybe him, he’s not sure.

Finally, Morgana steps back into the bedroom, sadly with a towel wrapped around her body. “Your bathroom is _filthy_. And, yes, before you start, filthy is normally a good thing, but not when it comes to bathrooms.”

“Mmmm,” Trevor hums in response, watching a water droplet disappear from view between Morgana’s breasts, down into the towel. “You gonna get dressed?”

“You’re not going to leave the room, are you,” Morgana asks, but she doesn’t even bother inferring the question.

“Nope,” Trevor grins. He sits up on the bed, leaning his back against the headboard. “Feel free to gimme a bit of a show while you’re at it,” he teases.

Morgana quirks her eyebrow. “Is that so?” she asks in a deep voice. Trevor’s eyes grow a little wider, as Morgana puts her knees on the bed, slowly shuffling towards Trevor. “You think I didn’t get a look at your cock before I went in the shower?”

Trevor’s mouth opens to respond, but no sound comes out. Morgana straddles his hips instead, sitting down just enough for her to feel Trevor’s hardness through his briefs. “I was thinkin’ about you, y’know.”

“You… you were?” Trevor asks, tipping his chin up to kiss Morgana, hands paralysed by his sides as he’s so used to doing. _Look, but don’t touch_. “You’d earn a lot of money at my club,” he says.

“Ah, the infamous Vanilla Unicorn,” Morgana smirks, just barely brushing his lips. “You gonna compare me to a hooker?” she asks with danger in her voice, pressing her body down harder against Trevor’s erection before she hovers again.

“No!” Trevor is quick to say. “No, I just mean… you know how to tease, and…” Trevor finally moves his hands, going to unknot the towel from where Morgana’s tied it. The fabric falls away, exposing Morgana’s breasts and naked body to him. “Fuck, and you’re so fucking beautiful. Killer smile, fuck-me eyes, you’d eat them up.”

“Yeah?” Morgana asks, intrigued.

“But I wouldn’t let them touch you, no,” Trevor continues, hands going to Morgana’s waist. She straddles his hips again now, slowly beginning to rock back and forth, dragging her bare pussy over the damp front of Trevor’s briefs. “You’d give private dances but… I’d be there… just watching you work, watching you move… everyone in the Vanilla Unicorn would know that you belong to me, that you’re _mine_ , that you… oh, shit, fuck me, Morgs, please, come on.”

Morgana grins. “I thought you only wanted a tease?” she sing-songs. “We won’t get to the beach at this rate.”

“I--”

Trevor’s cell phone starts ringing loudly, and the two of them turn to stare at it rattling on his night stand. The caller ID shows _Michael_ and a picture of the man in question. “Leave it,” Trevor says. “If it’s that important he’ll call back. He knows the rule.”

Morgana makes a small noise of agreement in the back of her throat, before she leans in and kisses Trevor. The phone vibrates off the table and falls onto the floor, before it finally stops ringing. “Good,” Trevor mutters into her mouth, tongue beginning to explore.

His phone rings again.

“Fucking… I swear to God if this isn’t important I’m going to kill him for real this time,” Trevor says as he reaches over the side of the bed, patting blindly for his cell before he picks it up and answers the call on loudspeaker.

“Quit screwin’ your fucking girlfriend and get into LS _pronto_ ,” Michael says down the line before Trevor can even speak. “We gotta go live. Plan got leaked.”

Trevor and Morgana share a panicked look. “How?” Trevor growls.

“Mole. Gwen,” Michael answers. Morgana can hear an engine accelerating in the background. “She fuckin’ slept with Franklin for information, and poor kid, he fuckin’ told her. We need to move today.”

“She won’t tell!” Morgana says quickly, and Trevor shoots a dagger glare at her. Morgana wraps her towel back around her as she talks. “She owes me that much. If Arthur set her up to it… she’s a coward!”

“Whatever,” Michael dismisses coldly. “Now hurry the fuck up, both of you. Lester has intel that most of them will be at Pendragon this afternoon.”

“Wait, _most_ of them? Not _all_ of them?” Morgana asks quickly, but the line’s gone dead. She looks at Trevor in the silence that follows, gently getting off both him and the bed. “I, um, guess the beach trip is cancelled.”

“Gwen… Gwen was a mole,” Trevor deadpans. “And you didn’t, for one, _miniscule_ second, consider this?” he asks Morgana.

Morgana turns to him as if he’s just slapped her across the face. “She’s my _friend_ ,” she snaps as she pulls on a pair of underwear from her suitcase. “Was I meant to _expect_ an ulterior motive?”

“You don’t trust _anyone_ in this game!” Trevor shouts, and his sudden volume makes Morgana jump. “Have you not fucking learnt that yet?”

“You can trust my fucking choices!” Morgana hurls back, standing defiant in just her panties, nowhere near backing down. “You can trust _me_.”

“No I _fucking_ can’t!” Trevor yells. Morgana pauses, staring at Trevor with shock plain on her face. “I heard you last night. You weren’t crying because of all of _this_ , you were crying because of _him_.”

Morgana gasps in surprise. “Merlin? You-- you think I would?” Her tone softens a little. “You think I love him.”

Trevor pulls a face, crossing his arms over his chest. “You said he was important.”

“Trevor,” Morgana sighs, running her hands through her hair. “You think he’s a patch on you? After all this?”

“How do I know you haven’t been faking it, been lyin’ to me?” Trevor asks, and Morgana can see the hurt in his eyes, even though his face is set in a grimace. “You told me yourself you’ve fucked people for information, how do I know that you didn’t just play me the same? Just now, this morning, right here on my _fucking_ bed, how do I know you weren’t giving me a lapdance while you were thinking of him?”

Morgana shakes her head, reaching down to pick up a bra. “You’re being irrational,” she says as she puts it on and fastens it.

“I’m being _logical_ ,” Trevor says. “Guys like me don’t end up with girls like you out of sheer fucking luck. There’s always a catch, always something waiting out there to fuck you up. I mean, you turned up on my fucking doorstep and--”

 _Knock knock_.

Morgana’s head whips towards the front door of the trailer, before she glances back at Trevor. “Ron?” she whispers, crouching down next to her suitcase. She quickly pulls on a t-shirt.

“He doesn’t knock,” Trevor mutters back. “Stay here.”

Trevor walks out of the bedroom through to the door, opening it to a tall man in a suit with wavy black hair. “And who the fuck are you?” he asks.

“You need to leave. Both of you. You’re in danger.” The man glances at Trevor’s state of undress, and offensive tattoos, before peering into the trailer.

“Again, who the fuck are you?” Trevor asks, before Morgana emerges behind him, fully dressed.

“Lance?” Morgana asks, voice full of surprise. “What… why?”

“Wait, he’s one of Pendragon’s crew?” Trevor asks quickly. He reaches for the shotgun he keeps by the door, but Morgana stops him.

“I’ll explain everything in the car. Please. You can’t let him win this time,” Lance says, looking at his watch. “We need to go.”

Trevor looks to Morgana, who nods. “Trust me. Please,” she whispers, taking one of his hands and squeezing it. “We’ve got everything to lose if we don’t.” He swallows, before he gives a tight nod, heading back into the bedroom to get dressed. “How did you find me?” Morgana asks Lance as she waits at the door.

“The call you took from Merlin last night?” Lance starts. Morgana’s eyes widen a bit. “Orchestrated by Arthur, he convinced Merlin to do it, and made you keep talking until Gaius could triangulate the call.”

“That little…” Morgana mutters.

“So does that mean Merlin was lying?” Trevor asks, appearing in the doorway in jeans and a white t-shirt. Morgana glares at him for a moment.

“You’ll have to ask him yourself, Mr Philips,” Lance says. “You both ready to go?”

“I just need to grab my handbag,” Morgana says, darting back into the bedroom. She pauses there for a second, a hand against her forehead. Had Merlin truly meant his words? Morgana could never see a future with him now, aside from getting him away from Arthur and all the horrible things associated with Pendragon. And now, Arthur knows exactly where she is, and what she’s planning.

She scoops her bag off the floor.

“Let’s go,” she says, ushering Trevor out of the door of his trailer and across the yard towards a sleek black Übermacht Oracle. “I see you went for something subtle,” Morgana deadpans.

“Every businessman in Los Santos has one of these, Morgana, and this one isn’t tracked, before you ask,” Lance says, as he opens the back door for her to get in. “It’s not my fault that the good people of Sandy Shores don’t hold the same standards.”

“Businessmen out here drive Bodhis,” Trevor quips, getting into the front passenger seat. “Unless they cross me, in which case they end up in hearses,” Trevor laughs. Lance takes his place behind the wheel, and a few moments later they’re pulling away, headed for Los Santos. “So why, pray tell, are you here?” Trevor asks.

Morgana can see Lance press his lips together before he speaks. “It hasn’t been the same since Uther took a step back,” he starts. “Uther was ruthless… but not like Arthur is. Arthur’s become some kind of monster. And since you’ve been gone, Morgana… he’s unstoppable. I’ve never seen him so bloodthirsty before.”

“So no chance of redemption, then?” Morgana asks, trying to keep her tone light but failing a little.

“Absolutely not,” Lance replies. “Just this past week, he’s plotted at least a dozen different ways to kill you.”

“That doesn’t seem like very many,” Trevor muses from the front seat. Morgana gives the back of his headrest a look.

“I had to tell you about the triangulation, but I only found out a few hours ago. I couldn’t have called, because I have no idea if your phone is now wired, or whatever – I don’t understand Gaius’ technological bullshit sometimes.”

“Have you heard about Gwen?” Morgana asks carefully. She watches Lance’s eyes stay focussed on the road ahead, the car now beginning to weave through grassy rolling hills.

“Oh, _I_ know that look,” Trevor says, also looking at Lance. “That’s the look of a broken man.”

“She didn’t _want_ to spy for Arthur,” Lance says, as if each word is painful to say. “I just… I just wish she’d see that there are good people in this world, who want to look after her and care for her…” Lance’s knuckles turn white as they grip the steering wheel. “But Arthur has her, hook, line, and fucking sinker.”

“I’ve told her so many times, Arthur doesn’t want her for anything more than blackmail and an angry fuck,” Morgana sighs, and Lance winces.

“I told Arthur he shouldn’t be doing that to Gwen,” Lance says. “Last night, as I was leaving the office. I think he might have his suspicions that I’ve had enough. He told me I was weak for letting my emotions control me.”

Morgana squints. “You really like Gwen, don’t you?” she asks, a kind of wonder in her voice. “I’d never even considered it.”

“Yeah, because I’m normally waist deep in blood and bullshit,” Lance says, sighing. “I don’t want to drag her into that world. Maybe I’ll retire after this, see if she’ll have me then.”

“Retirement’s for weak, fat old men, no offense,” Trevor says. Morgana knows he’s referring to Michael, and she rolls her eyes dramatically. “So we’re not killing Gwen on this thing then?”

“No,” Lance and Morgana say simultaneously. Trevor puts his hands up in surrender, before he looks out of the window.

Lance clears his throat. “All of the guys will be in the office today. Percy, Gwaine, Leon, Merlin, Arthur. I made sure. I couldn’t get Gaius in, but you know him, he’ll disappear as soon as he even smells something rotten.”

Morgana whistles lowly. “That’s… they’re your friends.”

“I know,” Lance says, with a sense of finality.

The rest of the journey passes mostly in silence, until Trevor starts giving directions for his warehouse, where the crew are meeting. As they pull off the highway, Trevor dials a number into his phone. “We’re in a different car,” he says down the line. “Don’t freak out.”  He hangs up, before turning around to look at Morgana. “This is it. The start of the rest of your life. You ready?”

Morgana looks at Trevor, his tattoos, his scars. He still looks angry about the Merlin situation.  “Are you?” she asks, not quite sounding as confident as she’d like.

Trevor grins, and Morgana feels brave again. “Sweetheart, I was _born_ ready.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to back badasses, Morgana and Trevor play up to every trope going as they finally take on Arthur...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Last main chapter, thanks to everyone who's been reading! <3

After a series of turns, the car slowly rolls down a grassy track towards a large warehouse. Michael’s Tailgater and Franklin’s Buffalo are parked outside, and Lance pulls up next to them, killing the engine.

“I’ll go first,” Morgana says, getting out of the car to find Michael, Franklin, and Lester waiting for her. “We’ve got a defector,” she tells them.

“A _what_?” Michael asks.

“One of Pendragon’s men has finally realised the guy’s a prick,” Trevor announces as he gets out of the car. “Out you come, Lance.”

Lance gets out of the car, buttoning up his suit jacket as he does so. “Arthur knew where she was. I couldn’t leave her. Plus, I’ve managed to get all your guys in the office today. They’re yours for the taking.”

“By the _way_ ,” Trevor drawls. “He’s got a bit of history with Gwen, so, we should probably _not_ talk about that right now.”

Franklin looks at Lance before he glares at Trevor. “Yeah, T, ‘cause that really fuckin’ helps.”

“Need I remind you,” Lester interrupts loudly, “lady and gentlemen, that we have an office to heist, people to kill, et cetera?” He gestures to the back of a black SUV. “Michael, Frank, we need these crates unloaded. Lucky for you, Mr. DuLac, I always pack spares.”

Lance leans towards Morgana. “Should I ask how he knows my name?” he mutters.

“Normally, yes, but in your case, no, because up until this morning you were on an _incredibly_ detailed hit list he gave us,” Morgana whispers back.

“Everyone’s got pants, a top, sneakers, boots, whatever works for you. Super heavy armor, special carbines – you’re going to be noisy, and don’t worry, the floor below is still empty – grenades, sticky bombs, the works,” Lester explains as they all crowd in around the crates of equipment. “Morgana, for when you get to Uther, I’ve got a little something special for you,” he says, handing Morgana a tiny bag containing one pill. “Get this into his water. I’m also giving you a garrotte, in case you need it.”

“Thanks,” Morgana says uneasily.

“There’s a storeroom in there if you want to change,” Lester says, handing her a bundled set of clothes. “These are yours. Against common video game portrayals of women, and my own wishes, I gave you some pretty bland clothing, so you won’t be recognised as one, female, and two, Morgana Pendragon.”

“That actually makes sense,” Morgana concedes, taking the clothes. “Thanks.” She means it this time.

The storeroom is little more than a dark closet, and Morgana bumps into multiple walls and objects as she changes into her outfit. It reminds her a little of when she started out modelling, having to get dressed backstage at dingy venues. She laughs, realising she’s come full circle.

“You done in there?” comes Trevor’s voice from the other side of the door.

Morgana looks down at her outfit, black cargo trousers with a long sleeved black top, a black balaclava showing only her eyes, and gloves too. She opens the door to let the light spill in as she starts to lace her boots up, surprisingly comfortable and a good fit.

“Hey,” Trevor says, looking down at Morgana lacing her boots. “Y’know, I always liked a girl in uniform.”

Morgana half-laughs. “Didn’t realise you liked me at all,” she mumbles as she finishes one boot, switching knees to get to the other.

“You’re not playing fair,” Trevor says lowly, picking Morgana’s balaclava up from where she had left it. When she looks up, she sees he’s already dressed, and he looks even more menacing than he usually does.

Boots laced, she stands up, meeting Trevor face to face. “You weren’t very fair either, if I’m honest,” Morgana says. “But… with what we’re about to do, we need to be sticking together.”

Trevor bundles Morgana against him suddenly, holding her tight and pressing his face into her hair. “You stick right by my fucking side, you hear me? Regardless of whether I’m playing fair or being a cunt or _whatever_ , you stick with me. I can’t lose you, you got that?”

“Yeah,” Morgana says, smiling into his chest. “And you’re not a cunt.”

“ _God_ , you said that like you meant it as well,” Trevor groans, and when Morgana steps back, he’s smiling. “Can you call me that more often? I like what your accent does to it.”

“Jesus.” Morgana rolls her eyes. She picks up her gloves, and Trevor hands her her balaclava. “Let’s go.”

They re-join the group in the main part of the warehouse, the other men all dressed and making small talk. “Morgana,” Lester calls. “This is Patrick McReary, he’ll be your extra crew member on this job.” She shakes hands with a slim man in a similar outfit to hers, as her eyebrow raises at his name.

“Pleasure to meet a fine Irish lass like yourself,” Patrick says, “but please, call me Packie.”

“Here’s an earpiece for all of you,” Lester says, distributing headsets to the six of them. “For fuck’s sake, listen to what I say, and _when_ I say it. Morgana, Lance, I’m sure you might be able to help once we’re inside, but until then, I have CCTV to loop and locks to trip, so I need you to follow instructions. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael says, dismissing Lester with a wave of his hand. “We good to go?”

Lester struggles to open a crate full of super heavy armour, and everyone reaches in to grab theirs as Lester keeps talking. “Yes. Franklin, you’re driving this SUV, this is the one adapted to get you to Uther’s house in time. Morgana, keep an eye out for it, it has the different plates and will be waiting out front, not in the garage. Michael, you’re driving the other. I’ll be here with the blueprints and my computer, talking you through it all.”

Lester looks around the group. “Final point. Morgana probably shouldn’t be doing any talking, and neither should Lance, as their voices will be recognised. Her codename is Fay, his is just L. Any questions?”

Morgana looks at each of the men, all ready to lay down their lives for her so she can finally be free. Michael glances at her. “You up for this?”

“Dibs on Arthur,” she says, a certain confidence suddenly colouring her words. She puts on her armor, and it’s heavier than it looks. “Let’s do this.”

“I like her,” Packie announces as they all grab their rifles and extra clips. Franklin, Morgana, and Trevor get into one car as Lance, Packie, and Michael bundle into the other.

“It all got a bit messed up these past coupla days, right?” Franklin says as they speed out onto the street, Michael following them.

“That’s an understatement,” Trevor says, fiddling with the sights on his rifle. “I’m so ready to clear these fucks out and be done with them.”

“You’re telling me,” Morgana says sarcastically, watching the streets scroll by the window.

“Franklin, Michael, you’re heading for the underground parking garage,” Lester says through their earpieces. “I’ve hacked the door for it to open as you get there, and the CCTV is already looping. Morgana and Lance will _quickly_ show you to the elevator. I’ve disabled the door to the armoury as well so don’t get any ideas. Franklin, you know what you’re doing with your SUV.”

“Masks on, boys,” Michael’s voice calls through the headset as they reach downtown Los Santos. Morgana pulls hers tight over her head, making sure her hair is concealed inside it.

The Arcadius building looms above them as they pull into the garage sharply, the doors only just risen enough for the two SUVs to squeeze through. “I’m dropping you two here,” Franklin explains, as they slowly roll past flashy sports cars and SUVs with blacked out windows. “Then I’ll be parked round front, in case they manage to get control of the garage door; I’m makin’ sure the front desk doesn’t call the cops. When you’re done upstairs, come down to the lobby, I’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Morgana says, squeezing Franklin’s shoulder from the back seat.

“Let’s go!” Trevor calls as they pull up by the access door to Pendragon’s basement. Morgana and Trevor bail from their SUV, as the others get out of Michael’s, parked in a nearby space.

Lance leads the way to the door, punching in the code quickly before shouldering it open. As they file into the corridor that leads to the elevator, armoury, and planning room, Morgana feels a little nostalgic; it was via this door that she’d escaped Arthur in the first place.

Now, she was coming back to him one final time.

Lance continues to lead to the elevator, with Morgana, Trevor, and Michael following closely behind, Packie keeping rear guard. The elevator is waiting for them as they reach it, and they crowd inside.

“Nice and cozy in here,” Trevor remarks as they begin to ascend, pressed between Michael and Morgana.

“So far, so good,” Michael remarks, watching the floors continue to increase. “Packie, we’ll do the crowd control. These guys know who they’re looking for.”

“Sounds good to me,” Packie says, cocking his rifle. They all copy his lead, as the elevator begins to slow.

“Good luck,” Lester says over their headsets. Morgana takes a deep breath.

“Showtime,” Trevor whispers with a grin, as the elevator pings and the doors slide open.

“Everybody get down on the fucking ground!” Michael shouts, firing a couple of shots at the ceiling. As the gang fans out around the elevator, pointing their weapons at the screaming office workers, Morgana takes a moment to ground herself, to remind herself that this is everything she’s ever wanted.

“Shut the fuck up!” Michael yells, and his voice echoes around the office as the terrified hostages begin to fall quiet. “Keep down, no sudden movements, and no one fucking dies.”

“L, Fay, let’s move,” Trevor calls, and Lance takes the lead, heading to the first office. It’s empty, and so is the second. Morgana has a clear line of sight of the interior spiral staircase leading up to the next floor, and indicates it to Trevor and Lance. “Finish clearing this floor first,” Trevor says lowly, and Morgana nods.

A few shrieks come from the main floor, and a couple of rounds are fired. “Whole bunch of workers just came down the back staircase,” Michael explains through the earpiece. “I bet they’ve flushed them out from upstairs, so they’ve got the advantage. Get a move on.”

Clearing the lower floor is a relatively quick task, but still far too slow for Morgana’s liking. Every corner has to be checked, and while Morgana knows it’s necessary, it makes her stomach begin to turn with anticipation.

“This is a good pace,” comes Lester’s voice in her ear, and it eases her nerves a little. “Keep going, I’m just gonna update you. The elevators are locked, they won’t be able to override them. Their CCTV room has also locked on them, how convenient, so they can’t see your progress but I can,” Lester says, before he sighs. “Only drawback on that one is that the cameras are only located in the main office spaces - the offices themselves are blind. There’s no more hostages upstairs, Michael’s right… I think your guys will have hidden up to make things more difficult for you. You’ll probably want to leave Packie down here with your hostages, and as you go upstairs, you’ll want two guys going up the spiral, two guys going up the main staircase, so you can’t get creeped up on. Happy?”

“Yeah,” Morgana breathes, and a couple of the others utter their agreement.

“All clear, lower floor,” Trevor states clearly. “L, M, take the back stairs. Me and Fay will take the spiral.”

Adrenalin begins to curl through Morgana’s body again, having faded a little as they’d lost momentum, now a cocktail including creeping fear. She psyches herself up, jumping up and down on the spot as they reach the bottom of the spiral staircase in the middle of the floor, Lance heading back towards Michael.

“You ready?” Trevor asks, brown eyes the only thing visible through his balaclava.

“Yeah,” Morgana says, keeping her voice down. She grips Trevor’s left hand briefly with her own. “Let’s go kill some bad guys.”

“We _are_ the bad guys,” Trevor says, and Morgana can hear his grin. “On the count of three,” he says, looking to Michael on the other side of the floor. They both hold out three fingers, then two, then one, and then they move.

Trevor leads, going up the stairs two at a time, and as he draws level with the top he opens up a burst of covering fire. Morgana follows on his heels, emerging on the second floor and ducking straight for the desk she knows is right at the top.

An echoing round of gunfire explodes above their heads, and Trevor pokes his head out of cover to try and locate its source. “You guys up yet?” he says into his receiver, urgency in his voice.

“Yeah,” Michael says. “I can’t see anybody though. We’ll clear the janitor’s closet then move up to you.”

Another burst of fire rings out, and then another. “I think we’ve got company!” Trevor sing-songs over the radio, before blind-firing across the office. Morgana winces as glass shatters.

“Oh fuck,” Michael says. “Half a dozen guys off to our left, that’s where all that noise is coming from.”

“Arthur probably guessed we were coming soon,” Lance says into his headset. “M, we’ll take this.”

“We’ll keep moving towards Arthur’s office,” Morgana says, looking to Trevor. He nods, peeking his head over the desk again. “Clear?”

“Let’s go. Door on the right, quickly,” he says, urging Morgana out of their hiding place and providing covering fire. She runs to the door, belatedly realising that it’s her own office. Trevor joins her as she tries to peek through the partition glass.

“It hasn’t been touched since the day I left,” Morgana says. “Apart from them pulling the blinds down.” As Morgana squints into the dark room, Trevor tries the handle to find it locked.

“You got a key?” he jokes, before he delivers a forceful kick right next to the lock. It separates the wood from the metal, the door swinging open.

“Nice,” Morgana comments, walking into her old office. It’s smaller than Arthur’s but still spacious, with sofas clustered together at one end, with her desk at the other. “This is so…”

Morgana is shoved to the ground, falling awkwardly into the side of her desk and smacking her forehead against her rifle as it lands below her. In the darkness, she looks towards where she thinks Trevor is, but all she can hear is grunting and objects being knocked into.

“T?” she calls in a panic, trying to sit up in her heavy gear.

“Get… the fucking _lights_ ,” he shouts from the other side of the room, as if he’s speaking from between his teeth. Morgana stumbles to her feet, blindly following her desk to the wall and then to the light switch.

Illuminated, she can see Trevor grappling with a man nearly a foot taller than him. Morgana wonders for a moment why Trevor is choosing to use his fists instead of his gun, delivering an uppercut followed by an elbow to his assailant’s face, before she realises it’s been knocked onto the floor, in the opposite corner to where she stands.

The fighting pair spin, and Morgana connects the dots, realising it’s Percy who Trevor’s fighting with. Trevor takes a punch to the face as if it’s nothing, while gripping at Percy’s hair, kicking his shins. “A little help here?” Trevor yells as he ducks the next punch, not without receiving a blow to his back.

Morgana remembers her rifle slung over her shoulder, pulling it round quickly and looking down the sights. Percy blocks one of Trevor’s blows, and they’re both in her crosshairs now, moving too much to be picked apart.

“Pull the fucking trigger!” Trevor shouts as Percy lunges towards his abandoned rifle. Trevor slams his fist into his gut, sending Percy stumbling.

Morgana keeps looking down the sights but it’s no use; she doesn’t have enough faith in her shooting ability to take out Percy without injuring Trevor. “I can’t!”

“Fucking--” Trevor grits out, distracted for a second before Percy grabs him, using his height and weight to put him in a chokehold. Percy turns away from Morgana as he does so, meaning that Morgana can’t tell where Trevor is in relation to Percy’s body, unable to find a clean shot.

As Trevor splutters and gasps, Morgana makes a quick decision, lowering her rifle and switching on the safety. She holds it by the handguard and body, before crossing the room at a run, using all her might to slam the butt of the rifle into Percy’s back.

It’s enough to incapacitate Percy for the moment, and she uses her rage to swing again, this time sending the force of the rifle into the back of his knees. He releases Trevor and falls to the floor, giving Morgana enough time to hold her rifle like a baseball bat and swing the butt of it into the side of Percy’s head. He goes down like a tonne of bricks, bleeding and twitching on the floor.

“Jesus,” Trevor says, hands around his own neck, panting. “We… can’t let our guard down.”

Footsteps approach them from outside the office, and Morgana pivots quickly with her bloody rifle ready in her shoulder. “It’s just us,” Michael says, one hand up in a kind of surrender. “We heard shit going down over the radio.”

“They’re hiding in the offices,” Morgana says quietly to Michael and Lance as Trevor retrieves his rifle. “We’ll have to--”

They all jump as Trevor fires a round point blank into the side of Percy’s head. “What?” Trevor asks innocently. “He tried to kill me!”

Morgana rolls her eyes, turning back to the other men. “We’ll have to clear each room carefully,” she continues. “Did you have any trouble with those others?”

“No, all just hires, I think they realised they were fucked,” Lance explains.

“We need to do Uther’s office next,” Morgana tells him.

“Definitely,” Lance agrees, nodding.

“Isn’t that the other side of the floor?” Michael asks, looking over his shoulder from where he’s keeping sentry by the door. “Wouldn’t it be easier to clear this side first?”

“Uther’s office has weapons in it nowadays,” Lance explains, and Morgana grins widely.

Trevor looks between the two of them. “What’s so funny?” he asks.

Morgana laughs. “I just knew it! They’ve got a fucking armoury up here too.” She wipes the blood off her rifle, turning the safety off again. “Uther’s office, then these ones, then Arthur’s. I bet that’s where he’s hiding, the pussy.”

“Let’s roll,” Michael says, leading the way across the floor towards Uther’s old office. Glass crunches under their boots as they check their arcs, the open-plan office space seemingly clear. “This the one?” Michael asks as they stop outside a door.

“Yeah,” Morgana says. “Wanna do the honors, T?” she asks, gesturing to the door.

Trevor takes a small run up to kick the door in, but this one swings open easily, already open. Michael is over his shoulder, rifle raised, before he stops suddenly. “Woah!”

“I’ll only talk to Morgana,” comes a voice from the room, blocked from Morgana’s line of sight by the other men.

“Gwaine?” Morgana asks, pushing past Trevor to head into the room. “What…”

Morgana’s words fail her as she takes in the sight of Gwen, a knife to her neck, and Gwaine stood behind her, holding it. Racks of assault rifles fill the rest of the empty office, like a copycat Ammu-nation. “Please don’t hurt her,” Morgana says quietly. Gwen tries to say something, but Gwaine’s hand clamped over her mouth prevents everything but muffled words.

Morgana glances over her shoulder at Michael’s steely eyes, and Lance’s shocked expression. She turns back to Gwaine. “You wanted to talk with me? Why don’t you let Gwen go, then we’ll talk?”

“I’m not stupid,” Gwaine laughs. “I put Gwen down, your trigger-happy buddy kills me,” he says, nodding towards Michael. “Sling your rifle, and take your mask off.”

Morgana sighs, letting the sling of her rifle take its weight before pulling her balaclava over her head. The air of the office is cool against her heated skin, and she takes a moment to wipe the sweat off her brow, hands unoccupied. “Talk.”

Gwaine eyes Michael and Lance warily, their rifles still trained on him, before he looks back to Morgana. “You should come back to Pendragon.”

Morgana laughs, caught by surprise, but she sobers immediately when Gwaine yanks Gwen’s head back and she tries to scream. “Are you serious?”

“Come back to Pendragon. Arthur will forgive you, I’ll talk him into it, you know I’m his right hand man,” Gwaine says, voice high. Morgana knows for a fact that the position of second in command is filled by Leon, but she doesn’t voice it. “We’ll all be together again.”

Morgana takes in Gwaine’s bloodshot eyes, his erratic appearance. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. “Are you high right now Gwaine?” Morgana asks softly.

“Remember that time we slept together, Morgs?” Gwaine asks, a manic grin on his face. He puts the blade closer to Gwen’s throat once more. “Remember?”

Morgana cocks her head, brow furrowed. “That never happened,” she says slowly and surely. “Drop the knife.”

“I remember,” Gwaine says, nodding fervently. “If I can’t have you, Gwen won’t have you either.” Gwen screams silently again as the knife cuts her skin, blood trickling weakly down her neck. “I’ll do it. I promise.”

“ _Gwaine_ ,” Morgana says, trying to keep cool despite her best friend screaming helplessly. “You can sleep with me if you drop the knife.”

Gwaine lowers the knife from Gwen’s throat a little. “You’re serious?” he asks.

“Abso--”

Morgana is cut off by a gunshot, Gwaine collapsing against the wall behind him and Gwen stumbling forward, crying. Lance slings his rifle and runs to her, checking her neck. “Are you okay?” he asks anxiously. “I was so worried.”

“Nice shooting,” Michael remarks dryly, stepping forward to look at the remains of Gwaine’s head. "Clean shot.”

“You slept with him?” Trevor asks slowly as Morgana pulls her balaclava back on. He’d been keeping watch during the whole ordeal, but now, Morgana can see the pain in his eyes.

“No,” she says, quickly grabbing Trevor’s shoulders. “No. I never. And I wouldn’t have, either. I just wanted to save Gwen. She was my only friend, until I met you.”

She stares at Trevor for a couple moments more, before Trevor nods. “I believe you.”

“We need to keep moving,” Michael says, unsubtly walking between the two of them to get to the door. “Who else we still got to whack?”

“Leon, and Arthur,” Morgana says.

“And Merlin,” Trevor chirps unhelpfully. Morgana glares at him for a second, before readying her rifle again. 

“I’ll stay here with Gwen,” Lance says, having ripped Gwaine’s t-shirt to create a makeshift bandage for Gwen’s throat. “It’s not too bad, we can wait for you guys to finish up.”

Gwen looks up at Lance with worried eyes, before she turns to Morgana. Morgana nods. “Better use the time convincing Gwen not to squeal,” she says dismissively before she turns away, still not trusting Gwen after her stunt with Franklin. “Next office.”

“Y’know, I’ve been wondering,” Trevor drawls, back to his usual annoying self. Michael sighs in advance. “Where _is_ Arthur? Surely the leader of the pack should be, y’know, _leading_.”

“He’s probably hiding,” Morgana says, rolling her eyes. They check the next office, the door wide open, completely empty. “I meant it when I said he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty.”

The remaining offices are all empty, leaving them with Arthur’s. Covering each other’s arcs of fire, they make their way to the door of Arthur’s office, tucked out of the way of the main floor.

They prepare to round the final corner, signalling to each other in silence in case Arthur is waiting for them. Michael turns the corner quickly, firing off a couple of shots. Morgana hears a grunt, and she follows to find Leon slumped against the door of Arthur’s office, clutching his stomach.

“You kill me…” Leon gasps, “and Arthur kills himself.”

Morgana snorts. “Please. Arthur loves himself too much for that,” she deadpans, before she turns to Michael and nods. Michael finishes what he started, killing Leon quickly.

“Was he meant to be like, the mini boss before the final boss battle?” Trevor asks. Morgana rolls her eyes and Michael elbows him. “I’m just saying!”

A few screams and gunshots echo from downstairs. “I’m gonna go check on Packie,” Michael says. He reaches to the pistol holstered against his leg. “Take this, it’s better for close quarter stuff. You two can sort this out, and Morgana can do her fuckin’ sadistic shit.”

“Hey,” Morgana says lightly, before Michael claps her on the shoulder. Trevor steps forward, moving Leon’s body out of the way from where it was slumped against the door.

“I’m just teasin’, kiddo,” Michael says. “Don’t take too long.” He crosses the floor quickly, and as he makes his way downstairs, Morgana can hear him shouting.

“Last one,” Morgana says quietly, looking to Trevor out of the corner of her eye. “There’s a private bathroom in here, too.”

“You’re sure he’s in here?” Trevor asks.

Morgana shrugs. “Nowhere else he could be, if what Lance said were true.” She brings her rifle into her shoulder.

“On the count of three,” Trevor whispers to Morgana. They count down on their fingers: three, two, one.

Trevor kicks the door wide open with his boot, sending it crashing round into the glass partition wall. Morgana sprays the room with a round of bullets, before she stops and screams.

Sat in the large leather chair behind Arthur’s desk is Merlin, pale and lifeless and with a hole in the side of his head. Morgana runs towards the desk, before Trevor can grab her and hold her back.

“No!” Trevor shouts, but it’s too late, and his world goes into slow motion. Arthur has already emerged from the bathroom, pistol trained on Morgana, defenceless with her rifle slung on her back. Trevor wastes no time in plugging Arthur with four, five, six rounds with Michael’s pistol, but he isn’t quick enough to stop Arthur from pulling the trigger.

And then, the world picks up pace again, with everything happening at a hundred miles an hour. Arthur slumps back against the wall in a sitting position, blood seeping through his white shirt, and Morgana falls to the floor, gasping and wheezing. Trevor crosses the vast office to reach her. “Where’d he hit you?”

Morgana points at her chest, panting, and Trevor spies the end of the round sticking out of the armour. “Didn’t know he was a good shot,” Morgana hisses, managing a smile. “I think I broke a rib.”

“Okay, okay, easy, come on,” Trevor says, and if Morgana notices that his hands are shaking, she doesn’t comment on it. “Let’s get you up. You’ve got a fucker to kill, and I don’t want him to bleed out on you.”

Morgana grips Trevor’s arm for dear life as he helps her to her feet, unsteadily. “Fuck, fuck,” she says, leaning some of her weight on Trevor as he walks her over to Arthur, now coughing up blood, brow sweaty. He feebly reaches for his pistol again, and Trevor kicks it out of his reach. Morgana whips her balaclava off, but Arthur’s eyes don’t widen when she reveals her face. Trevor pulls his off, too, and Arthur wheezes a half-laugh.

“So…” Arthur manages, lips ghosting a smile. “You left me for _him_ , did you?”

“You killed Merlin,” Morgana says darkly, looking across to the body in the chair, long cold. “He looked up to you; he _adored_ you.”

“Wasn’t enough,” Arthur mumbles, straining to look up at the two of them. Morgana takes the pistol Trevor is offering to her, cocking it just for show.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Morgana says, coughing once. She leans on Trevor more heavily. “Because you only ever wanted Uther’s love. But _Daddy_ didn’t love you, did he? Because guess who he loved instead? Guess which one of us he got to _choose_?”

Arthur spits blood onto Morgana’s boot. “Fuck you.”

“Any last words for Uther? I’m going to go visit him now. When he hears what happened to you, he might _die_ of shock.”

“No,” Arthur says weakly, eyes shutting. “Don’t.”

“You better wake the fuck up, I’m not done with you,” Morgana says, anger rising, as Arthur’s head lolls down towards his chest. “ _Hey_!”

“Morgs,” Trevor says quietly, his hand on her arm.

Morgana stares at Arthur’s slumped form, before she raises her pistol and fires a bullet into his head, spraying his brain up the wall.

“C’mon, Morgana,” Trevor says, taking the pistol from her hands and throwing it to the floor. “That’s enough. Fucker’s dead already. We need to go.”

“Died as he lived. A fucking coward,” Morgana says resignedly. She returns the favour by spitting at Arthur’s feet, before she turns towards Merlin, frowning. “He needs a proper funeral. I want to take his ashes back to Dublin, where he belongs.”

“Okay,” Trevor says soothingly, helping Morgana walk towards the door. “But those funerals can only get organised if you don’t go to jail, so right now we really need to _go_.”

Morgana allows herself to be sullenly led back through the main floor, the two of them pulling their balaclavas back on. “Come with me to Uther,” Morgana says to Trevor. “I need you.”

“Really, you need to go to hospital, if you’ve broken a rib,” Trevor says, looking over his shoulder to see Gwen being led slowly by Lance, his arm around her shoulder.

“No. I need to do this,” Morgana says, wincing as they make their way down the staircase. The hostages are still cowering behind their desks, and a few of them are crying.

Michael looks up at them coming down the stairs. “Make her look more like a hostage, Lance,” he says quietly over the headset as they come into view. Lance mutters an apology before he puts Gwen’s arms behind her back in a loose grip, and her tear-stained face only adds to the illusion.

Packie fires off a couple of warning shots as the gang reaches the elevator. “Thanks for your patience while we dealt with this matter. No one had to die, see! Have a great day now!” he calls as the elevator doors shut around the six of them.

“You’re fucked up,” Michael says, shaking his head.

“Just being polite,” Packie argues.

“Well, well, well,” Lester says in their ears as the elevator descends. “All good and accounted for? I’ve seen limping and a _familiar face_.”

“Morgana got shot but took it in her chest plate, apart from that we’re all okay,” Trevor says. “We’ve got a hostage by the name of _Gwen_ ,” he sneers as if her name is unsavoury.

“Lance can take her, with Packie and Michael through the garage. She won’t talk, will she?” Lester asks.

Trevor gives Gwen a long look, and she shakes her head quickly, able to hear the conversation in their headsets because of the silent elevator. “No. I’m going with Morgana to Uther’s.”

“Heh, I thought you might,” Lester says sarcastically. “There’s a clean change of clothes in the back of Franklin’s SUV for you both. Good thing I like to be prepared.”

“You need a raise, Lester,” Franklin says over the radio. He sounds like he’s smiling.

“I’d like a fucking _cut_ , but seeing as this is a no pay out job, I’ll settle for each of you coming to visit my home. I’m a lonely old man,” Lester whines.

“How about a job, Lester?” Morgana asks brightly, despite her injury. “I’ve got a few vacancies to fill at Pendragon.” Lester goes quiet at that.

The elevator doors open into the spacious lobby, and Lance shuffles to the side, sensibly shielding Gwen from view. Franklin is sat behind the desk, a suit jacket on over his armour and heist gear, balaclava off. Behind the desk, the male receptionist cowers, in his shirt and trousers, facing the wall. “Took your goddamn time,” Franklin says, pulling his balaclava on and throwing the suit jacket back to the receptionist. “Start counting down from 100. When you’re done, you can do whatever the fuck you like. Call the cops, see if I care.”

“This is us,” Trevor says, pulling Morgana out of the elevator. “See you guys later on,” he waves to the others, who continue on down to the garage.

Franklin quickly leads the way out of the front of the building to where the SUV is parked on the kerb. “Your clothes are in the back,” he says, rounding the front of the vehicle to get in. “You got about three minutes to change.”

A police siren wails in the distance once Morgana and Trevor are in the back of the car, and Franklin floors it out onto the street, heading north.

Morgana picks up her bundle of clothes from the floor, shaking them out to find leggings, a blouse, and shoes. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Trevor asks quickly, already topless.

“He’s completely replicated one of my staples for Autumn/Winter 2011. Like. To a fucking tee.”

“Really?” Trevor asks, and as Morgana starts undressing, he shucks his trousers. “You’re worrying about fashion _now_?”

“Hold on,” Franklin shouts from the front as he swerves through traffic.

Trevor, naked except for his underwear, looks over to Morgana. “You know, when I’m this undressed in the back of a car, I’m usually fucking someone.”

“Way too much fucking information there, dude,” Franklin calls from the front, glancing in the rear view and then suddenly looking away as Morgana pulls her top off. “Sharp left, comin’ up.”

Trevor is thrown against Morgana as Franklin takes the corner, horns blasting from other road users as he cuts them up. The police sirens have faded now, as Trevor leers at Morgana. “Hey, gorgeous,” he drawls.

“Quit fuckin’ around back there, T,” Franklin says. “You got about a minute, tops.”

Morgana pulls on her clean shirt quickly as Trevor does the same, his outfit comprising of a button down and slacks. “You’ll actually look dapper for once,” Morgana quips as she unlaces her boots quickly, pulling her feet out of them and shoving her trousers down.

“Dapper? Huh. Well, it ain’t every day I get to meet a girl’s father,” he jokes uneasily and quietly, focussing on getting dressed. Morgana does the same, pulling her leggings up and slipping on her shoes. Every measurement is completely accurate, and she can’t work out whether to thank Lester or berate him for it. Finally, she pulls her hair down from its ponytail and brushes it out with her fingers.

“Y’all ready?” Franklin asks. “Morgana, straight on here, yeah?”

“That’s it,” she says. “Then a left, then down to the end of the street,” she says, directing Franklin to Uther Pendragon’s mansion, the place where he’d spent the last six months in retirement.

They all sit in silence as Franklin follows the directions, finally pulling up in front of a large house in Rockford Hills. “I’ll be down on the corner of the street when you’re done,” Franklin says.

“Thank you,” Morgana replies, before she and Trevor get out of the car. Franklin pulls away, and an odd silence descends around them, the first perhaps since they’d driven into Los Santos together hours earlier. “Let’s go,” Morgana says, linking hands gently with Trevor.

Their shadows are long beneath them as they walk through the front gate, to be greeted by a security guard in a suit. “Miss Pendragon, it’s nice to see you again,” he says, and Morgana smiles widely. “Can I check your ID, sir?” he asks Trevor.

“That won’t be necessary, John. This is Tony, I’m taking him to meet Daddy for the first time,” Morgana explains in a sickly sweet voice. Trevor manages a tight smile. “Is Alice here today?”

John shakes his head. “She left a couple of hours ago.”

Morgana smiles again. “Let the rest of your team know that we don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Of course, Miss Pendragon,” John says, face red. He steps aside, reaching for his radio, as Morgana and Trevor walk through the front door of the house.

“Who’s Alice?” Trevor asks in a hushed voice once they’re inside, Morgana leading the way up a grand staircase. “And have you got the poison?”

“I won’t need it,” Morgana says, staring straight ahead. Her grip on Trevor’s hand increases. She leads them to a door on the top floor, and she pushes it open without knocking.

Trevor’s eyes widen as he takes in the hospital bed and the quiet beeping of machines. The room is modern, with a linoleum floor and wide windows overlooking Los Santos. In the middle of it all, with a drip in his arm and a breathing tube under his nose, lies a frail-looking man.

“This…” Trevor says quietly, before swallowing. “ _This_ is Uther Pendragon?”

Morgana stares on. “Yeah,” she breathes.

“I’ve obviously _missed_ something here,” Trevor says, looking towards Morgana for an explanation.

Morgana sighs. “Six months ago, Uther had a stroke; a really bad one. We never let the press know, because if the press knew, our enemies would know, and Pendragon would’ve been theirs for the taking. The power went down to Arthur, but in Uther’s will, it goes to any of his legal children.”

“And you’re officially adopted,” Trevor fills in. Morgana nods.

“Arthur--” she starts, but her voice breaks. “He doesn’t even come and visit. Doesn’t know that, over the last month alone, Uther’s gone from being in a wheelchair to being back in a bed, like this. He doesn’t _care_ , as long as he has the company.” Morgana uses the sleeve of her shirt to wipe tears from her eyes.

“Why are you crying?” Trevor asks softly, pulling Morgana close. She continues to stare at Uther. “Isn’t this the guy who took you away from your home, who murdered your parents, who made you do all this _shit_ you’ve had to do for the last ten years?”

Morgana sniffs. “When we first came to Los Santos,” she begins, “I was about sixteen, Merlin fifteen. The city was foreign and frightening, and we didn’t have any company aside from each other. Every Friday, Uther used to take us out for ice cream.”

Trevor’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything. Morgana steps out of his embrace to walk towards Uther’s bed, the man occupying it in a deep sleep. “Every Friday, without fail. He’d tell his main aide, Agravaine, to clear his schedule. Arthur would get pissed – he was well over twenty by this point, but he was jealous, because his own father was showing his adopted kids more love than he ever got. And yeah, it’s not an excuse for all the fucked up shit, but…”

“Ten years ago,” Trevor says, clearing his throat. “When I started setting up in Blaine County, if you even _breathed_ the name Uther Pendragon, people would _run_. He was terrifying, a living legend that everyone knew about, but no one had met.” Trevor steps forward to stand next to Morgana. “He deserved to go out in battle, or surrounded by cocaine and hookers. Not like this.”

The corner of Morgana’s mouth crooks up. “Yeah,” she agrees. “I guess… if it wasn’t me now, then what? Another few months of being mostly comatose until I have to come and make the decision anyway?” She walks around the side of Uther’s bed, and gives him a long look. “I’m sorry, Uther,” she says, before she reaches behind his life support machine and switches it off.

One machine starts to beep, then another, and then another. Morgana re-joins Trevor at the foot of the bed. “I don’t want to watch,” she tells Trevor, as she faces the door. “I don’t know how long it will take.”

“You can wait outside, if you like,” Trevor says, watching on. Uther makes a wheezing noise, almost a death rattle, and Morgana shudders. “I’ll make sure.”

Morgana swallows and nods, walking outside and closing the door behind her. She sits down on the chaise-longue outside the door, running her hands through her hair. As of now, she is the CEO of Pendragon Ltd, and sole heir to the fortune that comes along with it. She’s free of everything and everyone that has ever held her captive. The weirdest thing is that she doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt, and she’s not sure whether that should reassure or concern her.

Lost in her musings, Morgana jumps when the door opens next to her. Trevor closes it softly behind him, sitting down next to Morgana. “I’ve killed lots of people, most of them in pretty fucked up ways. And you know what?” Trevor asks. “I normally take some kind of pleasure from it. But that? Fuck that.” He pauses for a couple of moments, contemplating something which he doesn’t voice. “I turned it back on, so it won’t look suspicious, but it ain’t much good now anyway.”

Morgana looks down at her shoes, unable to respond. “Let’s get you out of here,” Trevor says, and as he helps Morgana to her feet, she begins to cry again, the emotions of the momentous day beginning to crash over her. “It’s hard for her, seeing Uther that way,” Trevor explains to the curious bodyguard as they leave the house a few minutes later, the sun beginning to set out over the ocean. The bodyguard remains outside the door, none the wiser to the fact that the house’s sole occupant is dead on his watch.

When they reach Franklin’s SUV, Morgana’s eyes are red-rimmed. “Shit,” Franklin says, turning around in his seat. “Didn’t realise it would be so hard on you.”

“He deserved better,” Morgana says simply, curling into Trevor’s side as Franklin drives them away.

“Where are we going then?” Franklin asks.

“Mirror Park, Morgs’ house,” Trevor answers, and Morgana looks up at him. “What, you thought we were gonna go party, celebrate killing a bunch of people? _Please_ ,” Trevor says, rolling his eyes, and Morgana holds him a bit tighter. “That’s as much of a cliché as the heroes driving off into the sunset.”

Franklin laughs under his breath. Morgana looks up through the windshield to see the sun hovering over the ocean, gloriously orange. “Fuck clichés, man,” Franklin says. “We normally go get burgers.”

“That’s the spirit,” Trevor grins. “Up-n-Atom it is, then. Get Michael there too, fat ol’ Pork Chop loves his burgers.”

Morgana prods Trevor’s side weakly at the insult. “Man, be nice,” Franklin says. “And I thought you just said we weren’t celebratin’?”

“We’re not,” Morgana says quietly, Trevor glancing at her, pressed against his side. “Well, not celebrating an end. Celebrating the beginning of a new era, and good things to come.”

“Now who’s the cliché?” Trevor asks, a tease light in his voice. Morgana manages a smile, Trevor’s arms wrapped tightly around her, safe at last.


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months later, Morgana's made some changes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading this! I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed living and breathing this odd little universe <3

_Three months later_

Morgana smiles as she eyes up the podium, set up outside the Arcadius building; there’d been so many members of the press and public turn up that LSPD had been forced to close the street. The winter sun is nevertheless warm on her face, and she smooths out her modest black skirt suit, taking a deep breath.

“Good luck, Princess,” a voice says warmly in her ear. Trevor smiles at her, dressed in suit smart enough to rival her own, before giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You can do it.”

Morgana smirks. “Did you ever doubt it?”

“Not for a fuckin’ second,” he grins, before he waves Morgana in the direction of the podium.

Cameras begin to flash below her as she steps up to the podium, her first-ever public speech laid out before her, in case she hadn’t memorised it nearly two months ago. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she says warmly, hands holding the podium. “My name is Morgana Pendragon, CEO of Pendragon Limited. It is with both sadness, but also great pride, that I make today’s announcement.”

“Three months ago, the company was the subject of a brutal attack by assailants who still remain unidentified, and at large,” she says clearly, layering her voice with false anger. “This resulted in the deaths of several of the company’s most trusted partners: Percival Hartman, Gwaine Durkin, Leon Knight, and my adopted brothers, Merlin Pendragon and Arthur Pendragon.”

Morgana takes a moment to swallow and look down at her notes. She thinks for a moment of Merlin, the only one she wished was still here.

Looking up again, Morgana schools her features. “As you will know, Uther had been gravely ill at the time of this attack. He passed away upon hearing the fate of his sons,” she says, casting her eyes downwards again.

“The company, its legacy, and its influence fell to me. As of last week, the legal process has been finalised, and I have been named CEO by both the executors of my father’s will and by Pendragon’s new board of directors. My first actions as CEO will be those of remembrance; a statue will be erected in the plaza to commemorate all who were killed, and the company will be moving to a new headquarters, here in downtown Los Santos, out of respect to those who passed and to allow remaining staff to turn over a new leaf.”

Morgana hardens the line of her mouth, in a transition she has been practicing for days. “Crime will not go unpunished in this city, nor will heinous attacks like this one. Today, I also wish to announce a new area of investment for Pendragon, a corporate defence wing to rival the likes of Merryweather, at its peak. Trevor Philips Industries is an emerging defence conglomerate which we will be supporting as our next new venture.” She chooses not to mention the huge expansion of Trevor’s methamphetamine empire, boosted by illicit Pendragon funds.

The flashbulbs start up again, and Morgana looks back to Trevor. Trevor nods at her, giving her a sly thumbs up.

“Despite the tragic circumstances under which I came to be the CEO of Pendragon, this is not an indication of the strength of the company. The company will come back from this attack, more powerful and more robust than before. Additionally, my being a woman, after a very long line of male successors, will not weaken the company at all. I have announced my retirement from modelling as to concentrate fully on building Pendragon up to be stronger than it ever has been.” Morgana looks around the crowd, enraptured by her words. She nods. “Thank you for your time.”

Morgana steps off the stage as reporters begin crying her name, walking back into the shadows of the lobby where Trevor, Michael, and Franklin await. “Very good,” Michael says, kissing Morgana on the cheek. “A force to be reckoned with.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ hurricane,” Franklin says, giving Morgana a fist-bump as they’ve grown accustomed to. “If I wasn’t on board before? Shit, I would be now.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you guys,” Morgana says gratefully. “A place on the board of directors was really the least I could do.”

“Definitely,” Trevor chimes in. Morgana smiles happily, a sudden rush of joy filling her after having dreaded that speech for weeks. “You nailed it, just like I’m gonna nail you tonight.”

Morgana turns bright red as Michael and Franklin groan at the innuendo. Movement catches Morgana’s eye, and Gwen enters the lobby through security. She gives Morgana a nervous smile, eyes flickering between her and Franklin. “Gwen,” she says softly, turning them both away from the bantering men. 

“I just wanted to say goodbye,” Gwen says. “I… Our flight leaves this evening, and I wanted to say goodbye in person, and I wanted to say how sorry--”

“It’s been and gone,” Morgana says, before she pulls Gwen into a hug. “Look after Lance, okay? Liberty City is lovely, and he’s got a big heart, he might fall in love with the city as well as you.”

Gwen laughs despite her eyes beginning to well up. “You’ll come visit?”

“Of course,” Morgana smiles, pulling away, but holding Gwen’s hands gently. “I hear it’s a grand place.”

Gwen smiles, before she nods to the others, now watching their encounter. “See you around,” she says to Morgana, before she disappears down out into the crowd again, linking arms with Lance as they go.

“Looks like it turned out alright,” Michael says, looking between them all. “We’re running jobs again, which is fuckin’ A.”

“Yeah, and not for billionaire psychopaths too,” Franklin chips in.

“Well…” Trevor drawls, looking towards Morgana pointedly.

Morgana jabs him in the ribs. “I’m not a billionaire. Yet.”

“Mmm, not denying the psychopath though,” Trevor says, wrapping an arm tightly around Morgana’s waist.

“You can talk,” Michael retorts, and anger crosses Trevor’s face for a brief second. “Anyway, me and Franklin are going to go enjoy a drink at Pendragon’s newest strip club.”

“Hey, no, the Vanilla Unicorn is _mine_ , no umbrella company bullshit is taking that hellhole away from me!” Trevor calls as the other men leave, laughing at him. “Assholes.”

“They’re alright,” Morgana smiles, taking Trevor’s hand and beginning to lead him outside, turning to walk along the security fencing around to their waiting car. The flashing bulbs intensify as they emerge into the sunlight again. “Hey, I was thinking, we never did go to that beach you were talking about.”

Trevor’s eyebrows raise a little and Morgana smiles softly. “Well, seeing as we’re both our own bosses now, how about we take tomorrow off and go? We’ll take the company helicopter, and I promise there’ll be lots of beach sex,” Trevor says, whispering the last part in Morgana’s ear.

“You’re impossible,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I love you too,” Trevor replies dryly, and when she stops and kisses him, she completely forgets that the flashing cameras are even there.


End file.
